THE 
FATHER 

BY  AUGUST 
STRINDBERG 


TRANSLATE: 

BY 

N.  ERICHSEN 


Published 


Charles  H.Sergei 
Company 

Chicago 
1899 


\ 


EDITED    BY 

R.  BRIMLEY  JOHNSON 

AND 

N.  ERICHSEN 


Authorised  Translation 
All  Eights  Reserved 


THE  FATHER 

(A   TRAGEDY) 

BY  AUGUST  STRINDBERG 

TRANSLATED  BY 

N.  ERICHSEN 


CHICAGO 

CHARLES  H.  SERGEL  COMPANY 
1899 


PREFACE 


"  Quelle  blague,  quelle  lugubre  blagiie  que  la  vie." — 

AUGUST  STRINDBERG. 


THE  shadow  of  the  exceeding  sorrow  of  living  which,  in 
these  latter  days,  hovers  over  the  world-wide  realm  of 
letters  has  settled  in  deep  darkness  upon  the  literature 
of  the  far  North.  That  literature  is  summed  up  for  the 
general  in  the  writings  of  Ibsen  and  Bjbrnson,  and  fairly 
adequately  summed  up,  for  in  them  is  mirrored  the  spirit 
of  the  time  and  place.  All  that  is  most  terrible,  most 
tragic,  most  pessimistic  in  that  spirit  and  place  is  incar- 
nate in  August  Strindberg,  the  Swedish  dramatist  whose 
work  is  here  presented,  I  believe  for  the  first  time,  to  the 
English  reading  public.  It  would  be  absurd  to  claim  for 
Strindberg  equality  with  the  master  minds  of  the  day. 
But  pessimism  has  been  and  is  still  a  mighty  factor  in 
literature.  A  power  of  evil,  it  may  be,  but  a  great 
power :  a  power  that  has  at  least  brought  letters  into 
harmony  with  the  keynote  of  modern  existence.  And 
Strindberg  is  the  most  pessimistic  of  living  pessimists — 
for  Nietszche  is  living  dead.  That  is  his  claim  to  dis- 
tinction :  that  is  why  his  work  deserves  study. 

Strindberg's  pessimism  is  no  reasoned  philosophy  of 
the  mind :  it  is  bitter  conviction  of  personal  experience. 
His  way  of  life  has  been  a  veritable  via  dolorosa,  a 
way,  no  doubt,  of  his  own  choosing,  of  his  own  making. 


PREFACE 

His  many  volumes  of  autobiography,  to  which  further 
reference  must  be  made,  are  long  records  of  unending 
crises  of  soul.  Mr  Justin  H.  McCarthy,  in  an  article 
published  in  a  magazine  some  years  ago,  thus  pictures  his 
early  history.  "  Strindberg  springs,  I  believe,  quite  from 
the  people :  his  youth  belongs  to  the  '  servile  life  of  the 
cities.'  Poverty  twice  interrupted  his  studies  at  the 
University  of  Upsala,  and  to  say  that  implies  very  grind- 
ing poverty.  Poverty  made  many  things  of  him — made 
him  an  assistant  teacher  at  a  school  in  Stockholm,  made 
him  a  doctor's  assistant,  made  him  a  super  at  a  theatre. 
Men  of  the  Gil  Bias  temperature,  men  of  the  Con  Cregan 
temper,  would  have  found  food  for  mirth  in  all  these 
vicissitudes  :  Strindberg  seems  to  have  found  only  bitter- 
ness, conbativeness,  a  fierce  indignation  like  unto  Swift's. 
When  he  left  the  University  he  became,  as  many  a 
gallant  youth  has  become,  a  journalist,  drifting  from  one 
news-sheet  to  another,  till  in  1874  he  drifted  into  the 
comparatively  tranquil  haven  of  an  assistant  librarianship. 
In  this  haven  he  remained  for  some  years.  Then  his 
active  literary  career  began.  Then  came  years  of  travel, 
years  of  incessant  production,  years  of  incessant  strife. 
Then  came  the  influence  of  the  German  philosopher 
Nietszche.  Then  came  fame  and  unhappiness  and  all 
the  elements  that  have  made  him  what  he  is."  And 
the  sorrow  of  his  later  life  has  been  more  grinding,  more 
lasting  than  his  early  poverty.  Bodily  pains  are  as 
nothing  when  a  man  is  in  agony  of  spirit.  What  a 
terrible  thing  life  must  be  to  him  who  makes  confession 
in  an  extract  of  autobiography  in  "  Inferno  " :  "  To  search 
for  God  and  to  find  the  Devil !  That  is  what  has 
happened  to  me." 

vi 


PREFACE 

It  was  Strindberg  who  first  brought  to  Sweden  the 
realism  which  we  have  come  to  associate  with  the  names 
of  Zola,  de  Goncourt,  Maupassant.  It  was  as  a  novelist 
that  he  first  caught  attention.  The  catalogue  of  his 
works  would  fill  pages.  He  has  written  poetry,  short 
stories,  novels,  essays  innumerable.  He  is  a  passionate 
controversialist,  an  embittered  politician.  But  the  man 
and  his  work  are  seen  most  clearly  in  his  plays,  more 
clearly  even  than  in  his  autobiography. 

It  is  curious  that  Strindberg  like  Ibsen  began  his 
career  as  a  dramatist  by  writing  historical  plays.  In 
1881  his  first  piece,  "Master  Olaf,"  a  long  and,  to  English 
readers,  rather  wearisome  work  dealing  with  the  religious 
differences  of  the  Swedish  Lutherans,  was  performed  in 
Stockholm.  This  was  followed  by  the  "  Secret  of  the 
Guild,"  a  tragic-comedy  of  the  fifteenth  century,  and 
"Bengt's  Wife,"  another  historical  play  of  Reformation 
days,  with,  in  the  background,  a  suggestion  of  problem- 
atic modernity.  It  is  in  "  Bengt's  Wife "  that  we 
catch  a  first  glimpse  of  the  hand,  cold  and  merciless, 
that  has  dared  to  dissect  humanity,  of  the  writer  who 
in  observing,  understanding,  dissecting  the  female  soul 
has  come  to  hate  womankind  with  a  hatred,  not  un- 
reasoning yet  most  intense  and  implacable. 

"  The  Father "  was  produced  in  1887.  Of  the  play 
itself  I  need  write  little.  It  requires  no  explanatory 
notes,  no  glossary.  If  it  need  defence  that  is  best 
supplied  by  the  author  himself.  In  the  preface  to  "  Miss 
Julie,"  one  of  the  most  striking  and  suggestive  of  the 
apologies  for  realism  that  have  ever  been  offered,  August 
Strindberg  makes  confession  of  the  dramatic  faith  that 
has  guided  his  work.  This  manifesto  is  too  long  for 

vii 


PREFACE 

full  quotation  here,  but  the  following  extract  dealing 
particularly  with  "  The  Father "  gives  some  idea 
of  its  scope  and  serves,  moreover,  to  explain  the 
choice  of  a  theme  so  exceptional,  so  utterly  isolated 
from  all  that  is  commonplace  and  ordinary  in  ex- 
istence. 

"  Some  people,"  he  writes,  "  have  accused  my  tragedy, 
'  The  Father,'  of  being  too  sad,  as  though  one  desired  a 
merry  tragedy.  People  call  authoritatively  for  the  '  Joy  of 
Life '  and  theatrical  managers  call  for  farces,  as  though  the 
'  Joy  of  Life '  consisted  in  being  foolish,  and  in  describing 
people  who  each  and  every  one  are  suffering  from  St 
Vitus's  dance  or  idiocy.  I  find  the  joy  of  life  in  the 
powerful,  terrible  struggles  of  life ;  and  the  capability 
of  experiencing  something,  of  learning  something,  is  a 
pleasure  to  me.  And  therefore  I  have  chosen  an 
unusual  but  instructive  subject;  in  other  words,  an 
exception,  but  a  great  exception,  that  will  strengthen 
the  rules  which  offend  the  apostle  of  the  commonplace. 
What  will  further  create  antipathy  in  some,  is  the  fact 
that  my  plan  of  action  is  not  simple,  and  that  there 
is  not  one  view  alone  to  be  taken  of  it.  An  event  in 
life — and  that  is  rather  a  new  discovery — is  usually  occa- 
sioned by  a  series  of  more  or  less  deep-seated  motifs,  but 
the  spectator  generally  chooses  that  one  which  his  power 
of  judgment  finds  simplest  to  grasp,  or  that  his  gift  of 
judgment  considers  the  most  honourable.  For  example, 
someone  commits  suicide  :  '  Bad  business  ! '  says  the 
citizen  ;  '  Unhappy  love  ! '  says  the  woman.  '  Sickness ! ' 
the  sick  man  ;  '  Disappointed  hopes  ! '  the  bankrupt.  But 
it  may  be  that  none  of  these  reasons  is  the  real  one,  and 
that  the  dead  man  hid  the  real  one  by  pretending  another 

viii 


PREFACE 

that  would  throw  the  most  favourable  light  on  his 
memory."  l 

There  is  little  to  be  gained  by  following  in  detail  Strind- 
berg's  subsequent  career  as  a  dramatist.  He  has  produced 
a  number  of  plays  in  the  likeness  of  "The  Father" — 
among  the  most  notable,  "  Miss  Julie,"  an  appalling  story 
of  a  neurotic  woman,  and  "  Comrades,"  a  bitterly  cynical 
picture  of  an  unlovely  marriage.  All  are  black  with 
the  curse  of  misogyny.  More  instructive,  although 
more  bewildering  and  inexplicable,  are  the  volumes  of 
autobiography  and  the  three  volumes  of  the  "  Inferno." 

There  came  a  time  when  the  author  of  "  The  Father  " 
tired  of  humanity,  turned  from  the  study  of  the  finite  to 
search  infinitude,  to  search  for  the  powers  of  light  and 
darkness  that  make  and  mar  humanity.  Strindberg  is 
possessed  of  the  insatiable  thirst  that  for  ever  craves  in 
the  mind  of  the  scientist.  He  pinned  down  his  own  soul 
under  the  microscope,  tried  to  write  the  record  of  his 
self-discoveries,  the  autobiography  of  occult  existence, 
and  produced  the  '  Inferno.' 

In  it  you  will  find  a  pessimism  so  abysmal  and 
terrifying  as  to  defy  comparison  with  the  darkest 
thoughts  of  your  darkest  hours.  I  admit  that  I  have 
never  reached  the  second  volume  of  "  Inferno."  One 
does  not  wilfully  prolong  a  nightmare.  If  one  could 
be  certain  that  these  volumes  contained,  as  the  author 
claims  for  them,  a  veritable  autobiography,  they  would 
be  worthy  of  the  attention  that  every  psychologist  be- 
stows on  a  rare  human  document.  Must  they  not  rather 
be  regarded  as  the  awful  imaginings  of  an  overtired 

1  Quoted  from  Mr  J.  H.  McCarthy's  translation  in  the  Gentleman's 
Magazine,  1892. 

ix 


PREFACE 

brain?  It  seems  impossible  that  any  being  could  have 
suffered  all  that  is  here  depicted  and  retain  his  sanity. 
And  Strindberg  is  still  eminently  sane. 

Yet,  as  I  stated  at  the  beginning  of  this  brief  study, 
Strindberg  is  the  high  priest  of  a  vast  modern  cult, 
and  all  his  utterances  are  worthy  of  attention.  The 
most  interesting  thing  in  the  "  Inferno "  is  his  attitude 
towards  mysticism  and  the  mystic.  Pessimism  and 
mysticism  are  closely  allied:  the  progress  of  J.  K. 
Huysmans'  autobiographical  hero  is  proof  of  this. 
The  pessimist  cannot  fail  to  be  attracted  by  faith, 
for  the  agony  of  pessimism  lies  in  the  consciousness 
of  the  malady  and  the  knowledge  of  a  cure  which 
seems  utterly  beyond  the  grasp.  Read  the  later  works 
of  Pierre  Loti  if  you  would  appreciate  the  tragedy  of  the 
man  who  is  compelled  to  despise  a  child-like  faith,  and 
yet  cries  ever,  "  Oh,  that  I  could  believe !  "  The  hero  of 
Huysmans'  "  En  Route  "  found,  or  is  finding,  his  desired 
haven.  In  the  closing  lines  of  "  Inferno  "  there  is,  too,  a 
prophecy  of  an  ultimate  belief,  the  dim  foreshadowing 
of  a  future  hope.  The  coincidence  is  curious  and 
instructive.  It  seems  to  point  to  the  steady  march 
of  the  thinkers  towards  religion,  for  both  Huysmans  and 
Strindberg  have  wrestled  with  life,  and  searched  long  in 
its  deepest  depths  and  highest  heights.  W. 


THE  FATHER 


PERSONS 

A  CAVALRY  CAPTAIN. 

LAURA,  his  wife. 

BERTHA,  their  daughter. 

DR  OSTERMARK. 

THE  PASTOR, 

THE  NURSE. 

NOJD. 

THE  ORDERLY. 


ACT  I 

A  sitting-room  at  the  Captain's.  A  door  in  the  background  to 
the  right.  In  the  middle  of  the  room  a  large  round  table 
strewn  with  newspapers  and  magazines.  To  the  right  a 
leathered-covered  sofa  and  table.  In  the  right-hand  corner 
a  private  door.  To  the  left  a  bureau  with  a  clock  on  it, 
and  a  door  to  the  inner  rooms.  Arms  on  the  wall,  also 
guns  and  gamebags.  Clothes  pegs  by  the  door  on  which 
hang  uniform  coats.  A  lighted  lamp  on  the  large  table. 

SCENE  I 

THE  CAPTAIN  AND  THE  PASTOR  (on  the  sofa). 

[The  Captain  in  undress  uniform  and  riding  boots 
with  spurs.  The  Pastor  in  black  with  a  white 
neckcloth,  but  without  his  clerical  ruff;  he  is 
smoking  a  pipe. 

THE  CAPTAIN  (rings). 

ORDERLY. 
Yes,  sir. 

CAPTAIN. 

Is  Nqjd  out  there  ? 

ORDERLY. 

Nojd  is  waiting  for  orders  in  the  kitchen. 

CAPTAIN. 
Is  he  in  the  kitchen  again  !     Fetch  him  in  at  once. 


THE  FATHER        ACT  i.  sc.  i. 

ORDERLY. 

Yes,  sir.  [Goes. 

THE  PASTOR. 

What  is  wrong  now  ? 

CAPTAIN. 

Oh,  the  rascal  has  got  the  girl  into  trouble  again ;  he  is  a 
thoroughly  bad  lot. 

PASTOR. 

Nojd  do  you  say?  Why,  he  was  to  the  fore  in  the 
spring,  wasn't  he  ? 

CAPTAIN. 

Yes,  don't  you  remember?  But  won't  you  be  kind 
enough  to  say  a  few  friendly  words  to  him,  and 
perhaps  you  may  make  some  impression  on  him. 
I've  sworn  at  him,  and  I've  flogged  him  too,  but  it 
hasn't  the  least  effect. 

PASTOR. 

And  now  you  want  me  to  lecture  him.  What  impression 
do  you  suppose  the  Word  of  God  will  make  on  a 
trooper  ? 

CAPTAIN. 
Well,  it  certainly  has  no  eifect  on  me,  you  know. 

PASTOR. 
I  know  that  well  enough. 

CAPTAIN. 

But  on  him !     Try  at  all  events. 

4 


ACT  i.  sc.  ii.       THE  FATHER 

SCENE  II 
THE  FORMER.     NOJD. 

CAPTAIN. 
What  have  you  been  doing  now,  Nojd  ? 

NOJD. 

Begging  your  pardon,  Captain,  I  can't  possibly  say  while 
the  Pastor  is  here. 

PASTOR. 
Don't  be  bashful,  my  lad. 

CAPTAIN. 
You  had  better  confess,  or  you  know  how  it  will  be. 

NOJD. 

Well,  then,  it  was  like  this ;   we  were  at  a  dance  at 
Gabriel's,  and  then — and  then  Ludwig  said  .  .  . 

CAPTAIN. 

What  has  Ludwig  to  do  with  the  story.      Stick  to  the 
truth. 

NOJD. 

Yes,  and  then  Emma  said  that  we  should  go  into  the 
barn. 

CAPTAIN. 
Ah,  I  suppose  it  was  Emma  who  led  you  astray  ? 

NOJD. 

Well,  that's  about  it.     And  I  must  say  that  unless  the 
girl  is  willing  nothing  ever  comes  of  it. 
5 


THE  FATHER      ACT  i.  sc.  n. 

CAPTAIN. 
Once  for  all :  are  you  the  child's  father  or  not  ? 

NOJD. 
How  should  I  know  ? 

CAPTAIN. 
What  do  you  mean  ?    Can't  you  tell  that  ? 

NOJD. 
Why  no,  one  can  never  be  quite  sure. 

CAPTAIN. 
Were  you  not  the  only  one  then  ? 

NOJD. 

Yes,  that  time,  but  I  can't  be  sure  that  I  was  the  only 
one  for  all  that. 

CAPTAIN. 

Do  you  lay  the  blame  on  Ludwig  then  ?    Is  that  what 
you  mean  ? 

NOJD. 
It  isn't  easy  to  know  who  to  lay  the  blame  on. 

CAPTAIN. 
Yes,  but  you  told  Emma  that  you  would  marry  her. 

NOJD. 

Oh,  one  always  has  to  say  that  .  .  . 

6 


ACT  i.  sc.  ii.      THE  FATHER 

CAPTAIN  (to  Pastor). 
This  is  really  dreadful. 

PASTOR. 

These  are  old  stories !  But  listen,  Nb'jd,  you  are  surely 
man  enough  to  know  whether  you  are  the  father  or 
not. 

NOJD. 

Well,  certainly,  I  and  the  girl ,  but  you  know  yourself, 

Pastor,  that  it  needn't  come  to  anything  for  all  that. 

PASTOR. 

Look  here,  my  lad,  we  are  talking  about  you  now.  You 
will  surely  not  leave  the  girl  alone  with  the  child.  I 
suppose  we  can't  compel  you  to  marry  her,  but  you 
shall  provide  for  the  child !  that  you  shall  do. 

NOJD. 
Well,  then,  Ludwig  must  too. 

CAPTAIN. 

Then  the  case  must  go  to  the  Courts.  I  can't  dis- 
entangle all  this,  and  after  all  it  doesn't  concern  me. 
So  now,  be  off. 

PASTOR. 

Nb'jd,  one  word !  Don't  you  think  it  is  dishonourable  to 
leave  a  girl  like  that  in  absolute  destitution  with  her 
child  ?  Don't  you  think  so  ?  Heigh  ?  Don't  you  see 
that  such  a  mode  of  action  .  .  .  h'm  .  .  .  h'm. 

7 


THE  FATHER     ACT  i.  sc.  ra. 

NOJD. 

Yes,  if  only  I  knew  for  certain  that  I  was  father  to  the 
child,  but  one  can  never  be  sure  of  that,  Pastor,  and 
to  slave  all  one's  life  for  another  man's  child  is  not 
pleasant.  Surely  you,  Pastor,  and  the  Captain,  can 
understand  that  for  yourselves. 

CAPTAIN. 
Be  off 

NOJD. 
God  keep  you,  Captain.  [Goes. 

CAPTAIN. 
But  don't  go  into  the  kitchen  again,  you  rascal ! 

SCENE  III 
THE  CAPTAIN  AND  THE  PASTOR. 

CAPTAIN. 
Now  why  didn't  you  come  down  upon  him  ? 

PASTOR. 
What  do  you  mean  ?   Didn't  I  give  it  him  ? 

CAPTAIN. 
Why,  you  only  sat  and  muttered  to  yourself. 

PASTOR. 

To  tell  the  truth  I  really  don't  know  what  to  say.     It  is  a 
pity  about  the  girl,  certainly,  but  it  is  a  pity  about  the 
lad,  too.     For  just  think  if  he  were  not  the  father. 
8 


ACT  i.  sc.  in.      THE  FATHER 

The  girl  can  nurse  the  child  for  four  months  at  the 

o 

orphanage,  and  then  it  will  be  permanently  provided 
for,  but  the  lad  can  do  no  such  thing.  The  girl  will  get 
a  good  place  afterwards  in  some  respectable  house, 
but  the  lad's  future  may  be  ruined  if  he  is  dismissed 
from  the  regiment. 

CAPTAIN. 

Upon  my  soul  I  should  like  to  be  in  the  Magistrate's 
shoes  and  judge  this  case.  The  lad  is  probably  not 
quite  innocent,  one  can't  be  sure,  but  the  one  thing 
one  can  be  sure  of  is  that  the  girl  is  guilty  if  there 
be  any  guilt  in  the  matter. 

PASTOR. 

Well,  well,  I  judge  no  man  !  But  what  were  we  talking 
about  when  this  tiresome  story  interrupted  us.  It 
was  about  Bertha  and  the  confirmation,  wasn't  it  ? 

CAPTAIN. 

Yes,  but  it  was  surely  not  about  the  confirmation  par- 
ticularly, but  the  whole  of  her  education.  This 
house  is  full  of  women  who  all  want  to  educate  my 
child.  My  mother-in-law  wants  to  make  a  spiritual- 
ist of  her,  Laura  insists  on  her  being  an  artist ;  the 
governess  wants  to  make  her  a  Methodist,  old 
Margret  a  Baptist,  and  the  servant-girls  a  Salva- 
tionist. It  won't  do  to  try  and  make  a  soul  in 
patches  like  that :  especially  when  I,  who  have  the 
chief  right  to  form  her  character,  have  all  my  efforts 
opposed.  I  am  determined  to  get  her  out  of  this 
house. 

9 


THE  FATHER     ACT  i.  sc.  m. 

PASTOR. 
There  are  too  many  women  here  governing  the  house. 

CAPTAIN. 

Yes,  aren't  there?  It  is  like  going  into  a  cage  full  of 
tigers,  and  if  I  did  not  hold  red-hot  irons  under  their 
noses  they  might  tear  me  to  pieces  at  any  moment ! 
And  you,  you  laugh,  you  villain.  Was  it  not  enough 
that  I  took  your  sister  for  my  wife,  without  your 
palming  off  your  old  stepmother  on  me. 

PASTOR. 

Well  but,  good  Heavens,  one  cannot  have  stepmothers 
in  one's  house. 

CAPTAIN. 

No,  you  think  it  better  to  have  mothers-in-law  instead — 
in  other  people's  houses  that  is  to  say. 

PASTOR. 
Ah  well,  everyone  of  us  has  his  burden  in  this  life. 

CAPTAIN. 

Yes,  but  I  have  certainly  too  heavy  a  one.  I  have  even 
my  old  nurse  in  addition,  who  treats  me  as  if  I  ought 
to  wear  bibs  still.  She  is  a  good  old  soul,  Heaven 
knows,  but  she  is  not  in  the  right  place  here. 

PASTOR. 

You  must  keep  order  among  the  women  folk,  Adolf. 
You  let  them  dictate  to  you  far  too  much. 
10 


ACT  i.  sc.  in.     THE  FATHER 

CAPTAIN. 

Now,  look  here,  will  you  enlighten  me  as  to  how  to  keep 
order  among  the  women  folk  ? 

PASTOR. 

Laura  was  treated  with  a  firm  hand,  but  then,  although 
she  is  my  own  sister,  I  must  admit  she  really  was  a 
little  troublesome. 

CAPTAIN. 

Laura  has  certainly  her  weak  points,  but  with  her  they 
don't  amount  to  much. 

PASTOR. 
Pray  speak  quite  plainly,  I  know  her. 

CAPTAIN. 

She  has  been  brought  up  with  romantic  ideas  and  finds  it 
a  little  difficult  to  accommodate  herself  to  circum- 
stances, but  in  any  case  she  is  my  wife  .  .  . 

PASTOR. 

And  because  she  is  your  wife  she  is  the  best  of  them. 
No,  my  dear  fellow,  it  is  really  she  who  oppresses 
you  most. 

CAPTAIN. 

In  the  meantime  the  whole  house  is  turned  upside  down. 
Laura  won't  let  Bertha  leave  her,  and  I  can't  let  her 
remain  in  this  bedlam. 

PASTOR. 

Oh,  Laura  won't.     Well,  then,  do  you  know,  I'm  afraid 
there  will  be  difficulties.     If  she  set  her  mind  on 
11 


THE  FATHER     ACT  i.  so.  ra. 

anything  when  she  was  a  child,  she  used  to  lie  like 
a  corpse  till  she  got  it,  and  then  as  likely  as  not  she 
would  give  it  back,  explaining  that  she  didn't  care 
about  the  thing,  whatever  it  was,  but  about  getting 
her  own  way. 

CAPTAIN. 

So  she  was  like  that  even  then  ?     H'm She  really 

sometimes  gets  into  such  passions  that  I  am  quite 
anxious  about  her  and  fear  that  she  is  ill. 

PASTOR. 

But  what  do  you  wish  to  do  with  Bertha  that  is  so 
unpardonable  ?  Is  no  compromise  possible  ? 

CAPTAIN. 

You  mustn't  think  that  I  wish  to  make  a  prodigy  of  her, 
or  a  copy  of  myself. — I  will  not  play  the  pander  to 
my  daughter  and  educate  her  exclusively  for  matri- 
mony, for  in  that  case  she  would  have  bitter  days  if 
she  remained  unmarried.  But  I  will  not,  on  the 
other  hand,  persuade  her  into  a  masculine  career 
that  requires  a  long  course  of  training,  which  would 
be  entirely  thrown  away  in  case  she  should  wish  to 
marry. 

PASTOR. 
What  do  you  intend  then  ? 

CAPTAIN. 

I  intend  her  to  be  a  teacher.     If  she  remains  unmarried 
she  will  be  able  to  support  herself  and  at  anyrate  be 
12 


ACT  i.  so.  m.      THE  FATHER 

in  no  worse  position  than  the  poor  schoolmasters  who 
have  to  share  their  salaries  with  a  family.  If  she 
marries  she  can  apply  her  knowledge  to  the  education 
of  her  children.  Don't  you  think  I'm  right  ? 

PASTOR. 

Perfectly  right.  But  hasn't  she,  on  the  other  hand,  shown 
such  talents  for  painting  that  it  would  outrage  nature 
to  suppress  them  ? 

CAPTAIN. 

No!  I  have  shown  her  performances  to  an  eminent 
painter,  and  he  says  that  they  are  only  the  kind  of 
thing  that  can  be  learnt  in  schools.  But  then  a 
young  fellow  came  here  in  the  summer  who,  of 
course,  understood  the  matter  much  better,  and 
declared  that  she  had  a  remarkable  talent,  and  so 
it  was  settled  to  Laura's  satisfaction. 

PASTOR. 
Was  he  in  love  with  the  girl  ? 

CAPTAIN. 
I  take  that  entirely  for  granted. 

PASTOR. 

Then  God  be  with  you,  old  fellow,  for  in  that  case  I  see 
no  help.  But  all  this  is  very  tiresome,  and,  of  course, 
Laura  has  her  supporters  ...  in  there. 

CAPTAIN. 

Yes,  that  you  may  depend  on !    The  whole  house  is  already 
up  in  arms,  and,  between  ourselves,  it  is  not  exactly 
a  noble  conflict  that  is  waged  from  that  quarter. 
13 


THE  FATHER      ACT  i.  so.  HI. 

PASTOR  (gets  up). 
Do  you  think  I  don't  know  that  ? 

CAPTAIN. 
You  also  ? 

PASTOR, 
Also? 

CAPTAIN. 

But  the  worst  of  it  is  that  it  seems  to  me  as  if  Bertha's 
career  was  being  determined  by  most  objectionable 
motives,  in  there.  They  drop  hints  about  man  having 
to  see  that  woman  can  do  this  and  can  do  that.  It 
is  Man  and  Woman  against  one  another,  incessantly, 
all  day  long.  Must  you  go  now?  Do  stay  for 
supper.  I  have  certainly  nothing  to  offer  you,  but 
still.  You  know  that  I  am  expecting  the  new 
Doctor.  Have  you  seen  him  ? 

PASTOR. 

I  caught  a  glimpse  of  him  as  I  passed  by.  He  looked 
pleasant  and  trustworthy. 

CAPTAIN. 

I'm  glad  of  that.  Do  you  think  it  possible  he  may  side 
with  me  ? 

PASTOR. 

Who  knows?  It  depends  on  how  much  he  has  been 
accustomed  to  women. 

CAPTAIN. 
Oh  !  but  won't  you  stay  ? 

14 


ACT  i.  so.  in.      THE  FATHER 

PASTOR. 

No  thanks,  my  dear  fellow ;  I  promised  to  come  home  to 
supper,  and  the  old  lady  gets  so  uneasy  if  I  am  late. 

CAPTAIN. 

Uneasy  ?  Angry  you  should  say.  Well,  as  you  will.  Let 
me  help  you  with  your  overcoat. 

PASTOR. 

It  seems  to  be  very  cold  this  evening.  Thanks.  You 
must  take  care  of  your  health,  Adolf,  you  look  so 
nervous. 

CAPTAIN. 
Do  I  look  nervous  ? 

PASTOR. 
Yes,  you  are  not  really  well. 

CAPTAIN. 

Has  Laura  put  that  into  your  head  ?  She  has  treated  me 
these  twenty  years  as  if  I  were  at  the  point  of  death. 

PASTOR. 

Laura  ?  No  ;  but,  but  I'm  really  uneasy  about  you.  Take 
care  of  yourself.  That's  my  advice !  Good-bye,  dear 
old  man ;  but  didn't  you  want  to  talk  about  the 
confirmation  ? 

CAPTAIN. 

Not  at  all !     I  assure  you  that  matter  will  proceed  in 
the  ordinary  course  at  the  expense  of  the  official  con- 
science, for  I  have  no  intention  of  being  either  a  con- 
15 


THE  FATHER      ACT  i.  so.  iv. 

fessor  or  a  martyr.      We  have  put  all  that  behind  us. 
Good-bye.     Remember  me  at  home. 

PASTOR. 
Good-bye,  Adolf.     Love  to  Laura. 

SCENE  IV 
The  CAPTAIN,  afterwards  LAURA. 

The  Captain  opens  his  desk,  and  seats  himself  at  it 
with  his  accounts. 

CAPTAIN. 

Thirty-four  .  .  .  nine,  forty-three  .  .  .  seven,  eight,  fifty- 
six. 

LAURA  (enters  from  the  inner  rooms). 

Will  you  be  so  kind  as  to  ... 

CAPTAIN. 

In  a  moment !     Fifty-six  .  .  .,  seventy-one,  eighty-four, 
eighty-nine,  ninety-two,  a  hundred.     What  is  it  ? 

LAURA. 
Am  I  disturbing  you  ? 

CAPTAIN. 
Not  at  all.     Housekeeping  money,  I  suppose  ? 

LAURA. 

Yes,  housekeeping  money. 

CAPTAIN. 

Put  the  accounts  down  there  and  I  will  go  through  them. 

16 


ACT  i.  so.  iv.      THE  FATHER 

LAURA. 
The  accounts  ? 

CAPTAIN. 
Yes. 

LAURA. 

Am  I  to  keep  accounts  now  ? 

CAPTAIN. 

Of  course  you  are  to  keep  accounts  now.  Our  affairs  are 
in  a  precarious  condition,  and  in  case  of  a  liquidation 
there  must  be  accounts  or  one  may  be  punished  as  a 
fraudulent  debtor. 

LAURA. 

It  is  not  my  fault  that  our  affairs  are  in  a  precarious 
condition. 

CAPTAIN. 
That  is  exactly  what  will  be  shown  by  the  accounts. 

LAURA. 
It  is  not  my  fault  that  the  bailiff  doesn't  pay. 

CAPTAIN. 

Who  recommended  the  bailiff  so  warmly  ?  You !  Why 
did  you  recommend  a — shall  we  say — a  fool 

LAURA. 

And  why  did  you  take  the  fool,  then  ? 
CAPTAIN. 

Because  I  was  not  allowed  to  eat  in  peace,  nor  to  sleep 
in  peace,  nor  to  work  in  peace,  till  you  got  the  man 
here.  You  wanted  him  so  that  your  brother  might 
B  17 


THE  FATHER      ACT  i.  so.  iv. 

be  rid  of  him,  your  mother  wanted  him  because  I 
didn't  want  him,  the  governess  wanted  him  because 
he  was  a  Scripture-reader,  and  old  Margret  because 
she  had  known  his  mother  from  her  childhood. 
That's  why  I  took  him,  and  if  I  hadn't  taken  him  I 
should  be  shut  up  in  a  mad-house  now,  or  lying  in 
the  family  grave.  Meantime  here  is  the  house- 
keeping money  and  your  allowance.  You  can  give 
me  the  accounts  presently. 

LAURA  (curtesies). 

Thanks  so  much.  Do  you  also  keep  accounts  of  what  you 
spend  besides  the  housekeeping  money  ? 

CAPTAIN. 
That  does  not  concern  you. 

LAURA. 

No,  that  is  true,  just  as  little  as  my  child's  education 
concerns  me.  Have  my  lords  made  up  their  minds 
after  the  conference  of  this  evening  ? 

CAPTAIN. 

I  had  made  up  my  mind  beforehand,  and  it  therefore  only 
remained  for  me  to  announce  my  intention  to  the 
one  friend  I  and  the  family  have  in  common.  Bertha 
is  to  board  in  town  and  starts  in  a  fortnight. 

LAURA. 
Where  is  she  to  board,  if  I  may  venture  to  ask  ? 

CAPTAIN. 
At  Auditor  Safberg's. 

18 


ACT  i.  so.  iv.      THE  FATHER 

LAURA. 
That  free  thinker ! 

CAPTAIN. 

The  law  declares  that  children  are  to  be  brought  up  in 
their  father's  faith. 

LAURA. 

And  the  mother  is  to  have  no  voice  in  the  matter  ? 

CAPTAIN. 

None  whatever.  She  has  sold  her  birthright  by  a  legal 
transaction,  and  surrendered  her  rights  in  return 
for  the  man's  undertaking  to  care  for  her  and  her 
children. 

LAURA. 
Therefore  she  has  no  power  over  her  child. 

CAPTAIN. 

No,  none  whatever.  When  one  has  once  sold  one's 
goods,  one  cannot  have  them  back  and  yet  keep 
the  money. 

LAURA. 
But  if  both  father  and  mother  agree  .  .  . 

CAPTAIN. 

How  could  that  happen?  I  wish  her  to  live  in  town, 
you  wish  her  to  live  at  home.  The  arithmetical 
result  would  be  that  she  remained  at  the  railway 
station,  midway  between  town  and  home.  This  is 
a  knot  that  cannot  be  untied.  Do  you  see  ? 

LAURA. 

Then  it  must  be  broken !     What  was  Nojd  doing  here  ? 

19 


THE  FATHER      ACT  i.  sc.  iv. 

CAPTAIN. 
That  is  a  professional  secret. 

LAURA. 

Which  the  whole  kitchen  knows. 

CAPTAIN. 
Good,  then  you  must  know  it. 

LAURA. 
I  do  know  it ! 

CAPTAIN. 
And  have  your  judgment  ready  beforehand. 

LAURA. 
My  judgment  is  the  law's  judgment. 

CAPTAIN. 

It  is  not  written  in  "  the  judgment  of  the  law  "  who  the 
child's  father  is. 

LAURA. 
No,  but  one  can  usually  find  that  out. 

CAPTAIN. 
Wise  people  say  that  one  never  can  tell  those  things. 

LAURA. 

That  is  remarkable.     Can  one  never  tell  who  is  the  father 
of  a  child  ? 

CAPTAIN. 
No ;  so  it  is  maintained. 

20 


ACT  i.  so.  iv.      THE  FATHER 

LAURA. 

That  is  remarkable.  How,  then,  can  the  father  have 
such  rights  over  the  child  ? 

CAPTAIN. 

He  only  has  them  when  he  has  assumed  the  responsibility, 
or  has  had  the  responsibility  thrust  on  him.  And  in 
marriage  there  is,  of  course,  no  doubt  about  paternity. 

LAURA. 

No  doubt  ? 

CAPTAIN. 

No,  I  should  hope  not. 

LAURA. 

And  in  case  the  wife  has  been  unfaithful  ? 

CAPTAIN. 

This  is  no  such  case !  Have  you  anything  further  to  ask 
about  ? 

LAURA. 
Nothing  whatever. 

CAPTAIN. 

Then  I  shall  go  up  to  my  room,  and  perhaps  you  will  be 
good  enough  to  inform  me  when  the  Doctor  comes. 
[Shuts  the  bureau  and  gets  up. 

LAURA. 
Certainly. 

[Captain  goes  through  the  private  door  to  right. 

CAPTAIN. 

As  soon  as  he  comes.  For  I  don't  wish  to  be  rude  to 
him.  You  understand.  [Goes. 

21 


THE  FATHER       ACT  i.  sc.  v. 

LAURA. 
I  understand. 

SCENE  V 

LAURA  (alone,  she  gazes  at  the  bank  notes  she  holds  in 
her  hand}. 

MOTHER-IN-LAW'S  VOICE  (within}. 
Laura ! 

LAURA. 
Yes. 

MOTHER-IN-LAW'S  VOICE. 

Is  my  tea  ready  ? 

LAURA  (in  the  doorway  to  the  inner  rooms). 

You  shall  have  it  directly. 

[Laura  goes  towards  the  hall  door  in  the  back- 
ground, as  the  orderly  opens  it  and  announces — 
Doctor  OstermarJc. 

DOCTOR. 
Madam ! 

LAURA  (goes  towards  him  and  gives  him  her  hand). 

Good  evening,  Doctor  ?  We  are  all  very  glad  to  see  you 
here.  The  Captain  is  out,  but  he  will  be  back 
directly. 

DOCTOR. 

I  beg  your  pardon  for  coming  so  late,  but  I  have  had  to 
pay  some  professional  visits  already. 

LAURA. 
Won't  you  sit  down  ?     Do ! 

22 


ACT  i.  sc.  v.        THE  FATHER 

DOCTOR. 
Thank  you. 

LAURA. 

Yes,  there  is  a  great  deal  of  illness  in  the  neighbourhood 
just  now,  but  I  hope  that  you  will  settle  down  com- 
fortably all  the  same.  It  is  so  very  important  for 
lonely  country  people  like  us  to  find  a  doctor  who  is 
interested  in  his  patients.  And  I  hear  so  much  good 
of  you,  Doctor,  that  I  hope  the  happiest  relations 
will  prevail  between  us. 

DOCTOR. 

You  are  much  too  kind,  but  I  hope  on  the  other  hand 
that  my  visits  to  you  may  not  too  frequently  be 
caused  by  necessity.  Your  family,  I  believe,  is  usually 
in  good  health  .  .  . 

LAURA. 

We  have  fortunately  not  had  any  acute  illness,  but  still 
things  are  not  entirely  as  they  ought  to  be. 

DOCTOR. 
Indeed  ? 

LAURA. 

They  are,  Heaven  knows,  not  so  satisfactory  as  we  might 
wish. 

DOCTOR. 
You  really  alarm  me. 

LAURA. 

There  are  circumstances  in  a  family,  which  one  is  bound 
in  honour  and  conscience  to  conceal  from  the 
whole  world  .  .  . 

23 


THE  FATHER       ACT  i.  sc.  v. 

DOCTOR. 
Excepting  from  the  doctor. 

LAURA. 

Exactly.  It  is,  therefore,  my  painful  duty  to  tell  you 
the  whole  truth  immediately. 

DOCTOR. 

Can  we  not  postpone  this  conference  until  I  have  had  the 
honour  of  being  introduced  to  the  Captain  ? 

LAURA. 

No  !     You  must  hear  me  before  seeing  him. 

DOCTOR. 
It  relates  to  him,  then  ? 

LAURA. 
Yes — to  him,  my  poor,  dear  husband. 

DOCTOR. 

You  make  me  uneasy,'  Madam,  and  believe  me,  I  sym- 
pathise with  your  misfortune. 

LAURA  (taking  out  her  handkerchief). 

My  husband's  mind  is  affected.  Now  you  know  all,  and 
must  judge  for  yourself  when  you  see  him. 

DOCTOR. 

Is  it  possible!  I  have  read  the  Captain's  excellent 
treatises  on  mineralogy  with  great  admiration,  and 
have  always  found  them  display  a  clear  and  power- 
ful intellect. 

24 


ACT  i.  sc.  v.       THE  FATHER 

LAURA. 

Really  ?  I  should  be  delighted  if  his  whole  family  should 
prove  to  be  mistaken. 

DOCTOR. 

But  of  course  it  is  possible  that  his  mind  is  disturbed 
in  other  directions.     Let  me  hear. 

LAURA. 

That  is  what  we  also  fear.  You  see  he  has  sometimes 
the  most  extraordinary  ideas,  which  of  course  one 
would  expect  in  a  learned  man  if  they  did  not 
exercise  a  disastrous  influence  on  the  welfare  of  his 
whole  family.  For  instance,  he  has  a  fancy  for 
buying  all  manner  of  things. 

DOCTOR. 
That  is  serious ;  but  what  does  he  buy  ? 

LAURA. 
Whole  boxes  of  books  that  he  never  reads. 

DOCTOR. 

Oh,  it  is  nothing  out  of  the  way  for  a  scholar  to  buy 
books. 

LAURA. 
You  don't  believe  what  I  say  ? 

DOCTOR. 

Yes,  Madam,  I  am  convinced  that  you  believe  what  you 
say. 

LAURA. 

Then  is  it  reasonable  to  think  that  one  can  see,  by  looking 
in  a  microscope,  what  is  going  on  in  another  planet  ? 
25 


THE  FATHER       ACT  i.  so.  v. 

DOCTOR. 
Does  he  say  he  can  do  that  ? 

LAURA. 
Yes,  he  says  so. 

DOCTOR. 
In  a  microscope  ? 

LAURA. 

In  a  microscope,  yes. 

DOCTOR. 
This  is  serious,  if  it  is  so. 

LAURA. 

If  it  is  so.  Then  you  have  no  belief  in  me,  Doctor,  and 
I  am  sitting  here  and  confiding  the  family  secret  in 
you  ... 

DOCTOR. 

Indeed,  Madam,  your  confidence  honours  me,  but  as  a 
physician  I  must  investigate  and  observe  before  I  can 
judge.  Has  the  Captain  ever  shown  any  symptoms 
of  uncertainty  of  temper,  or  instability  of  will  ? 

LAURA. 

Has  he  ever  ?  We  have  been  married  for  twenty  years 
and  he  has  never  yet  made  a  decision  without 
abandoning  it  afterwards. 

DOCTOR. 
Is  he  obstinate  ? 

LAURA. 

He  always  insists  on  having  his  own  way,  but  when  he 
has  got  it  he  drops  the  whole  thing  and  asks  me  to 
decide. 

26 


ACT  i.  sc.  v.       THE  FATHER 

DOCTOR. 

This  is  serious  and  requires  close  observation.  The  will, 
you  see,  is  the  mainspring  of  the  mind,  and  if  it  is 
injured  the  whole  mind  collapses. 

LAURA. 

And  God  knows  that  I  have  had  to  teach  myself  to  meet 
his  wishes  half-way  all  through  these  long  years  of 
trial.  Ah,  if  you  only  knew  what  a  life  I  have 
endured  with  him — if  you  only  knew  ? 

DOCTOR. 

Your  misfortune  touches  me  deeply,  and  I  promise  you 
to  see  what  can  be  done.  I  pity  you  with  my 
whole  heart,  and  I  beg  you  to  trust  me  absolutely. 
But  after  what  I  have  heard  I  must  impress  one 
thing  on  you.  Avoid  suggesting  any  ideas  that 
make  a  strong  impression  on  the  sufferer,  for  in  a 
weak  brain  they  are  rapidly  developed  and  readily 
turn  to  monomania  or  "  Idees  fixes."  Do  you 
understand  ? 

LAURA. 

You  mean,  avoid  rousing  his  suspicions  ? 

DOCTOR. 

Exactly  so.  One  can  make  the  insane  believe  anything 
just  because  they  are  receptive  to  everything. 

LAURA. 

Indeed.  Then  I  understand.  Yes — yes.  (Ringing  heard 
within.)  Excuse  me,  my  mother  has  something  to 
say  to  me.  One  moment.  .  .  .  Ah,  there  is  Adolf. 

27 


THE  FATHER      ACT  i.  sc.  vi. 

SCENE  VI 
THE  DOCTOR  AND  THE  CAPTAIN. 

CAPTAIN. 

(Enters  by  the  private  door.) 
Ah,  you  are  here  already,  Doctor.    You  are  very  welcome. 

DOCTOR. 

Captain !  It  is  a  very  great  pleasure  to  me  to  make  the 
acquaintance  of  so  celebrated  a  man  of  science. 

CAPTAIN. 

You  are  very  good.  My  professional  duties  don't  allow 
me  to  make  any  profound  investigations,  but  I 
believe  myself  to  be  really  on  the  track  of  a  dis- 
covery. 

DOCTOR. 
Really. 

CAPTAIN. 

You  see  I  have  submitted  meteoric  stones  to  spectrum 
analysis,  with  the  result  that  I  have  found  coal,  that 
is  to  say,  a  clear  trace  of  organic  life.  What  do  you 
think  of  that  ? 

DOCTOR. 
Can  you  see  that  in  the  microscope  ? 

CAPTAIN. 

No,  deuce  take  it,  in  the  spectroscope. 

28 


ACT  i.  sc.  vi.      THE  FATHER 

DOCTOR. 

The  spectroscope !  Pardon :  Well,  then,  you  will  soon 
be  able  to  tell  us  what  is  happening  in  Jupiter. 

CAPTAIN. 

Not  what  is  happening,  but  what  has  happened.  If  only 
the  confounded  booksellers  in  Paris  would  send  me 
the  books ;  but  I  believe  that  all  the  booksellers 
in  the  universe  have  conspired  against  me.  Just 
imagine  that  for  the  last  two  months  not  a  single  one 
has  even  answered  my  communications,  either  letters 
or  abusive  telegrams.  I  shall  go  frantic  over  it,  and 
I  can't  imagine  what  it  all  means. 

DOCTOR. 

Oh,  they  are  generally  unbusinesslike  fellows,  you  mustn't 
take  it  so  much  to  heart. 

CAPTAIN. 

No,  but  the  deuce  is  that  I  shall  not  get  my  treatise  done 
in  time,  and  I  know  that  they  are  working  on  the 
same  lines  in  Berlin.  But  that's  not  what  we  ought 
to  be  talking  about.  .  .  .  What  about  you  ?  If  you 
care  to  live  here  we  have  a  small  apartment  at  your 
disposal  in  the  wing,  or  perhaps  you  would  rather 
live  in  the  old  doctor's  quarters. 

DOCTOR. 
Just  as  you  like. 

CAPTAIN. 

No,  as  you  like.     Which  is  it  to  be  ? 

29 


THE  FATHER      ACT  i.  sc.  vi. 

DOCTOR. 
You  must  decide  that,  Captain. 

CAPTAIN. 

No,  I  shall  decide  nothing.  You  must  say  what  you 
wish.  I  wish  nothing,  nothing  whatever. 

DOCTOR. 
Oh,  but  I  really  cannot  decide.  .  .  . 

CAPTAIN. 

For  God's  sake,  do  say,  Doctor,  what  you  would  like. 
I  have  no  will  in  this  matter,  no  opinion,  no  wishes. 
Are  you  so  utterly  feeble  that  you  don't  know  what 
you  wish  ?  Answer  me  or  I  shall  get  angry. 

DOCTOR, 
As  it  rests  with  me,  I  choose  to  live  here. 

CAPTAIN. 

Good!  Thank  you.  .  .  .  Ah,  forgive  me,  Doctor,  but 
nothing  annoys  me  so  much  as  to  hear  people  profess 
indifference  about  anything.  (Rings.} 

[Enter  Nurse. 

CAPTAIN. 

Oh,  there  you  are,  Margret.  Do  you  happen  to  know  if 
the  wing  is  in  order  for  the  Doctor  ? 

NURSE. 

Yes,  sir,  it  is. 

30 


ACT  i.  so.  vii.     THE  FATHER 

CAPTAIN. 

All  right.  Then  I  wont  detain  you,  Doctor ;  you  must  be 
tired.  Good-bye  and  welcome  again ;  we  shall  meet 
to-morrow,  I  hope. 

DOCTOR. 
Good  evening,  Captain. 

CAPTAIN. 

I  presume  that  my  wife  explained  our  circumstances 
to  you  a  little,  so  that  you  have  some  idea  how 
the  land  lies. 

DOCTOR. 

Your  excellent  wife  has  given  me  a  few  hints  about 
one  thing  and  another  such  as  were  necessary  to  a 
stranger.  Good  evening,  Captain. 


SCENE  VII 
CAPTAIN.     NURSE. 

CAPTAIN. 

What  do  you   want,  you   old  dear!     Is   anything  the 
matter  ? 

NURSE. 
Now,  my  dear  Mr  Adolf,  you  must  just  listen. 

CAPTAIN. 

Yes,  old  Margret.      Talk  away,  you  are  the  only  one 
I  can  listen  to  without  getting  into  a  rage. 

31, 


THE  FATHER     ACT  i.  so.  vn. 

NURSE. 

Now  just  listen,  Mr  Adolf.  Don't  you  think  you  should  go 
half-way  and  come  to  an  agreement  with  Mistress 
about  this  fuss  over  the  child.  Just  think  of  a 
mother.  .  .  . 

CAPTAIN. 
Think  of  a  father,  Margret. 

NURSE. 

There,  there,  there !  A  father  has  something  besides  his 
child,  but  a  mother  has  nothing  but  her  child. 

CAPTAIN. 

Just  so,  old  lady.  She  has  only  one  burden,  but  I  have 
three,  and  I  bear  her  burden  too.  Don't  you  think 
that  I  should  have  had  a  better  position  in  the  world 
than  a  poor  soldier's  if  I  had  not  had  her  and  her 
child. 

NURSE. 
Yes,  but  it  wasn't  that  I  wanted  to  say. 

CAPTAIN. 

No,  I  believe  that,  for  you  wanted  to  make  me  confess  I 
was  in  the  wrong. 

NURSE. 
Don't  you  believe,  Mr  Adolf,  that  I  wish  you  well  ? 

CAPTAIN. 

Yes,  dear  friend,  I  do  believe  it,  but  you  don't  know  what 
is  for  my  good.  You  see  it  isn't  enough  for  me  to 
have  given  the  child  life,  I  want  to  give  her  my  soul 
too. 

32 


ACT  i.  sc.  vii.      THE  FATHER 

NURSE. 

I  don't  understand  anything  about  that.  But  I  do  think 
that  you  ought  to  be  able  to  agree. 

CAPTAIN. 

You  are  not  my  friend,  Margret ! 

NURSE. 

I  ?  Ah  God !  How  can  you  say  that,  Mr  Adolf. 
Do  you  think  I  can  forget  that  you  were  my  child 
when  you  were  little. 

CAPTAIN. 

No,  you  dear,  have  I  forgotten  it  ?  You  have  been  like  a 
mother  to  me,  and  have  supported  me  hitherto  when 
I  had  everybody  against  me,  but  now,  when  I  really 
need  you,  you  desert  me  and  go  over  to  the  enemy. 

NURSE. 
The  enemy ! 

CAPTAIN. 

Yes,  the  enemy !  You  know  well  enough  how  things 
are  in  this  house,  you  have  seen  everything  from 
beginning  to  end. 

NURSE. 

I  have  seen  well  enough  !  but,  my  God,  why  should  two 
people  torment  the  life  out  of  one  another ;  two 
people  who  are  otherwise  so  good  and  wish  all  others 
well.  Mistress  is  never  like  that  to  me  or  to  anyone 
else.  .  .  . 
c  33 


THE  FATHER     ACT  i.  so.  vn. 

CAPTAIN. 

Only  to  me,  I  know  it.  But  let  me  tell  you,  Margret, 
that  if  you  desert  me  now,  you  will  do  wrong.  For 
they  have  begun  to  plot  against  me,  and  that  doctor 
is  not  my  friend. 

NURSE. 

Ah,  Mr  Adolf,  you  believe  evil  about  everybody,  but,  you 
see,  it's  because  you  haven't  the  true  faith,  that's  just 
what  it  is. 

CAPTAIN. 

But  you  and  the  Baptists  have  found  the  only  true  faith. 
You  are  indeed  happy ! 

NURSE. 

At  any  rate,  I  am  not  so  unhappy  as  you,  Mr  Adolf. 
Humble  your  proud  heart  and  you  will  see  that 
God  will  make  you  happy  in  love  to  your  neighbour. 

CAPTAIN. 

It  is  a  strange  thing  that  you  no  sooner  speak  of  God  and 
love  than  your  voice  becomes  hard  and  your  eyes 
evil.  No,  Margret,  you  have  certainly  not  the  true 
faith. 

NURSE. 

Yes,  you're  proud  and  hard  enough  in  your  learning,  but  it 
doesn't  amount  to  much  when  it  comes  to  the  pinch. 

CAPTAIN. 

How  arrogantly  you  talk,  humble  heart.  I  know  well 
enough  learning  is  of  no  use  with  such  creatures 
as  you. 

34 


ACT  i.  sc.  vm.    THE  FATHER 

NURSE. 

You  should  be  ashamed  of  yourself!  But  in  spite  of 
everything,  old  Margret  loves  her  great  big  boy  best, 
and  he  will  come  back  again,  you'll  see,  like  a  good 
child,  in  the  day  of  trouble. 

CAPTAIN. 

Margret!  Forgive  me,  but  believe  me  there  is  no  one 
here  Avho  wishes  me  well  but  you.  Help  me,  for 
I  am  sure  that  something  is  going  to  happen.  What 
it  is  I  don't  know,  but  some  evil  thing  is  on  its  way. 
(Scream  from  within}.  What  is  it  ?  Who  is  scream- 
ing? 

SCENE  VIII 
THE  FORMER.     BERTHA  (enters  from  inner  rooms). 

BERTHA. 
Father !  Father !  help  me,  save  me ! 

CAPTAIN. 
What  is  it  my  darling  child  ?     Speak ! 

BERTHA. 
Help  me.     She  is  going  to  hurt  me ! 

CAPTAIN. 

Who  is  going  to  hurt  you.     Speak !  Speak ! 

BERTHA. 

Grandmother !     But  it's  my  fault  for  I  deceived  her ! 

35 


THE  FATHER    ACT  i.  sc.  vm. 

CAPTAIN. 
Go  on. 

BERTHA. 

Yes,  but  you  mustn't  say  anything  about  it!  Do  you 
hear !  Promise ! 

CAPTAIN. 
Well,  but  tell  me  what  it  is.  [Nurse  goes. 

BERTHA. 

In  the  evening  she  generally  turns  down  the  lamp,  and 
then  she  makes  me  sit  at  a  table  holding  a  pen  over 
a  piece  of  paper.  And  then  she  says  that  the  spirits 
are  to  write. 

CAPTAIN. 
What  do  you  say  ?     And  you  have  never  told  me  this  ? 

BERTHA. 

Forgive  me,  but  I  dared  not.  For  grandmother  says  that 
the  spirits  take  revenge  if  one  speaks  about  them. 
And  then  the  pen  writes,  but  I  don't  know  if  it  is 
I.  And  sometimes  it  goes  beautifully,  but  sometimes 
it  can't  do  anything  at  all.  And  when  I  am  tired 
nothing  comes,  but  she  wants  it  to  come  all  the 
same.  And  this  evening  I  thought  I  was  writing 
beautifully,  but  then  grandmother  said  it  was  all  out 
of  Stagnelius,1  and  that  I  was  deceiving  her,  and 
then  she  got  so  fearfully  angry. 

CAPTAIN. 
Do  you  believe  that  there  are  spirits  ? 

1  Erik  Johan  Stagnelius,  poet  and  dramatist,  1793-1823. 
36 


ACT  i.  sc.  viii.    THE  FATHER 

BERTHA. 

I  don't  know. 

CAPTAIN. 

But  I  know  that  there  are  none. 

BERTHA. 

But  grandmother  says  that  you  don't  understand,  papa, 
and  that  you  have  much  worse  things  that  can  see 
to  other  planets. 

CAPTAIN. 

Does  she  say  that !  Does  she  say  that !  What  else  does 
she  say  ? 

BERTHA. 
She  says  that  you  can't  work  wonders. 

CAPTAIN. 

I  never  said  I  could.  You  know  what  meteoric  stones 
are, — stones  that  fall  down  from  other  heavenly 
bodies.  I  can  examine  them  and  say  whether  they 
contain  the  same  elements  as  our  world.  That  is 
all  that  I  can  see. 

BERTHA. 

But  grandmother  says  there  are  things  that  she  can  see, 
but  that  you  cannot  see. 

CAPTAIN. 
Then  she  lies ! 

BERTHA. 

Grandmother  doesn't  tell  lies. 

37 


THE  FATHER    ACT  i.  sc.  vra. 

CAPTAIN. 

Why  not  ? 

BERTHA. 
Then  mother  tells  lies  too. 

CAPTAIN. 
H'm. 

BERTHA. 

If  you  say  that  mother  tells  lies,  I  will  never  believe  you 
again. 

CAPTAIN. 

I  have  not  said  so,  and  therefore  you  must  believe  me 
when  I  tell  you,  that  your  future  welfare  requires  that 
you  should  leave  your  home.  Will  you !  Will  you 
go  to  town  and  learn  something  useful  ? 

BERTHA. 

Ah,  yes,  I  should  love  to  go  to  town,  away  from  here, 
anywhere!  Only  let  me  see  you  sometimes,  often. 
Oh,  it  is  always  so  gloomy  and  sad  in  there,  as  if  it 
were  a  winter's  night,  but  when  you  come,  father, 
it  is  like  some  spring  morning  when  they  take  out 
the  inner  windows. 

CAPTAIN. 
My  beloved  child.     My  dear  child. 

BERTHA. 

But,  father,  you  must  be  good  to  mother,  do  you  hear. 
She  cries  so  often. 

CAPTAIN. 

H'm.     Then  you  will  go  to  town. 

38 


ACT  i.  so.  viii.    THE  FATHER 

BERTHA. 

Yes,  yes. 

CAPTAIN. 
But  suppose  mother  will  not  let  you  go  ? 

BERTHA. 
But  she  must  let  me. 

CAPTAIN. 

. 

But  what  if  she  won't  ? 

BERTHA. 

Well,  then,  I  don't  know  what  will  happen.     But  she 
must !     She  must ! 

CAPTAIN. 
Will  you  ask  her  ? 

BERTHA. 

You  must  ask  her  very  nicely,  for  she  doesn't  care  about 
me. 

CAPTAIN. 

H'm !     Now  if  you  wish  it,  and  I  wish  it,  and  she  doesn't 
wish  it,  what  shall  we  do  then  ? 

BERTHA. 

Ah,  then,  it  will  be  all  in  a  muddle  again !     Why  can't 
you  ask.  .  .  .  [Enter  Laura. 

39 


THE  FATHER      ACT  i.  so.  ix. 

SCENE  IX 
THE  FORMER.     LAURA. 

LAURA. 

Ah,  so  Bertha  is  here !  Then  perhaps  we  may  hear  her 
own  opinion,  as  the  question  of  her  future  has  to  be 
decided. 

CAPTAIN. 

The  child  can  hardly  have  any  well-founded  opinion  as  to 
how  a  young  girl's  life  is  likely  to  shape  itself,  while 
we,  on  the  contrary,  can  easily  make  an  approximate 
calculation,  for  we  have  seen  a  great  number  of  young 
girls'  lives  unfold  themselves. 

LAURA. 

But  as  we  are  of  different  opinions,  Bertha's  must  be  the 
determining  one. 

CAPTAIN. 

No,  I  let  no  one  usurp  my  rights,  neither  women  nor 
children.  Bertha,  leave  us.  [Bertha  goes  out. 

LAURA. 

You  were  afraid  of  hearing  her  opinion,  because  you 
thought  it  would  be  to  my  advantage. 

CAPTAIN. 

I  know  that  she  wishes  to  go  away  from  home,  but  I  know 
also  that  you  possess  the  power  of  changing  her  mind 
according  to  your  pleasure. 

LAURA. 
Am  I  really  so  powerful  ? 

40 


ACT  i.  sc.  ix.      THE  FATHER 

CAPTAIN. 

Yes,  you  have  a  fiendish  power  of  getting  your  own  way, 
but  people  who  are  not  ashamed  of  interfering  always 
have.  How  did  you  get  Doctor  Nordling  away,  for 
instance,  and  how  did  you  get  the  new  man  here  ? 

LAURA. 
Yes,  how  did  I  manage  that  ? 

CAPTAIN. 

You  insulted  the  first,  until  he  went,  and  made  your 
brother  scrape  votes  together  for  the  other. 

LAURA. 

Well,  that  was  quite  simple  and  perfectly  legitimate. 
Is  Bertha  to  leave  home? 

CAPTAIN. 
Yes,  she  is  to  start  in  a  fortnight. 

LAURA. 
Is  that  your  determination  ? 

CAPTAIN. 
Yes. 

LAURA. 
Have  you  spoken  to  Bertha  about  it  ? 

CAPTAIN. 
Yes, 

LAURA. 
Then  I  must  try  to  prevent  it 


THE  FATHER      ACT  i.  so.  ix. 

CAPTAIN. 
You  cannot. 

LAURA. 

Can't  I  ?  Do  you  really  think  I  would  trust  my  daughter 
to  these  wicked  people  to  be  told  that  everything  her 
mother  has  taught  her  is  mere  foolishness  ?  Why,  she 
would  despise  me  for  the  rest  of  her  life ! 

CAPTAIN. 

Do  you  think  that  a  father  will  allow  ignorant  and 
conceited  women  to  teach  his  daughter  that  her 
father  is  a  charlatan  ? 

LAURA. 
It  ought  to  mean  less  to  the  father. 

CAPTAIN. 
Why  so  ? 

LAURA. 

Because  the  mother  is  nearer  to  the  child,  since  it  has 
been  discovered  that  no  one  can  tell  for  certain  who 
is  the  father  of  a  child. 

CAPTAIN. 
What  is  the  application  in  this  case  ? 

LAURA. 
That  you  do  not  know  whether  you  are  Bertha's  father. 

CAPTAIN. 
Do  I  not  know  ? 

LAURA. 

No ;  what  no  one  can  know,  you  surely  cannot  know. 

42 


ACT  i.  sc.  ix.      THE  FATHER 

CAPTAIN. 
Are  you  joking? 

LAURA. 

No ;  I  am  only  making  use  of  your  own  teaching.  Be- 
sides, how  can  you  tell  that  I  have  not  been  un- 
faithful to  you  ? 

CAPTAIN. 

I  believe  a  great  deal  of  you,  but  not  that,  nor  that  you 
would  talk  about  it  if  it  were  true. 

LAURA. 

Assume  that  I  was  prepared  to  bear  anything,  even  scorn 
and  rejection,  for  the  sake  of  being  allowed  to  keep 
and  dispose  of  my  child,  and  that  I  was  truthful  just 
now  when  I  declared  that  Bertha  is  my  child,  but 
not  yours.  Assume  .  .  . 

CAPTAIN. 
Stop! 

LAURA. 

Only  assume  this  :  In  that  case  your  power  would  be 
at  an  end. 

CAPTAIN. 
Yes,  when  you  had  proved  that  I  was  not  the  father. 

LAURA. 

That  would  not  be  so  difficult !  Should  you  like  me  to  do 
that? 

CAPTAIN. 

Stop! 

43 


THE  FATHER      ACT  i.  so.  ix. 

LAURA. 

I  should  of  course  only  need  to  declare  the  name  of  the 
real  father,  give  all  details  of  place  and  time,  for 

instance ,  when  was  Bertha  born  ?    In  the  third 

year  of  our  marriage. 

CAPTAIN. 

Stop,  or  ... 

LAURA. 

Or  what  ?  I  am  to  stop  now.  Just  think  for  a  moment  of 
all  you  do  and  decide,  and  whatever  you  do,  don't 
make  yourself  ridiculous. 

CAPTAIN. 
I  consider  all  this  most  lamentable. 

LAURA. 
Which  is  more  ridiculous  than  ever. 

CAPTAIN. 

And  what  of  you  ? 

LAURA. 
Oh,  I  have  managed  too  cleverly. 

CAPTAIN. 
That  is  why  one  cannot  contend  with  you. 

LAURA 
Then  why  do  you  provoke  contests  with  a  superior  enemy. 

CAPTAIN. 
Superior  ? 

44 


ACT  i.  sc.  ix.       THE  FATHER 

LAURA. 

Yes,  it  is  singular,  but  I  have  never  looked  at  a  man  with- 
out knowing  myself  his  superior. 

CAPTAIN. 

Well,  you  shall  be  made  to  see  your  superior  for  once,  so 
that  you  never  shall  forget  it. 

LAURA. 

That  will  be  interesting. 

NURSE  (enters). 
Supper  is  ready.     Will  you  come  in,  Ma'am  ? 

LAURA. 
Yes,  directly. 

[Captain  lingers ;   sits  down  in  an  arm  chair  by 
the  table. 

LAURA. 
Won't  you  come  in  to  supper  ? 

CAPTAIN. 
No  thanks,  I  don't  want  anything. 

LAURA. 

What !  Are  you  annoyed  ? 

CAPTAIN. 

No,  but  I  am  not  hungry. 

LAURA. 

Come,  or  they  will  question  me  in  a  way  that  is un- 
necessary. .  .  Be  good  now.  .  .  You  won't;  then 
stay  there. 

[Goes. 
45 


THE  FATHER      ACT  i.  sc.  ix. 

NURSE. 
Mr  Adolf!  What  is  all  this  about ? 

CAPTAIN. 

I  don't  know  what  it  is.  Can  you  explain  to  me  how  it 
is  that  a  grown  man  can  be  treated  as  if  he  were 
a  child  ? 

NURSE. 

I  don't  understand  it,  but  it  must  be  because  you  are 
all  women's  children,  every  man  of  you,  great  and 
small.  .  .  . 

CAPTAIN. 

But  no  women  are  born  of  men.  Yes,  but  I  am  Bertha's 
father.  Tell  me,  Margret,  don't  you  believe  it? 
Don't  you  ? 

NURSE. 

Lord,  how  childish  you  are.  Of  course  you  are  your  own 
child's  father.  Come  and  eat  now,  and  don't  sit 
there  and  brood.  There,  there,  come  now. 

CAPTAIN. 

Get  out,  woman.  To  hell  with  the  witches.  (Goes  to  the 
private  door)  Svard,  Svard !  [Enter  Orderly. 

ORDERLY. 
Yes,  Captain. 

CAPTAIN. 
Let  them  put  the  horses  in  the  covered  sleigh  at  once. 

NURSE. 
Captain,  just  listen ! 

46 


ACT  ii.  sc.  i.       THE  FATHER 

CAPTAIN. 
Out  woman  !    At  once  ! 

NURSE. 
Lord  preserve  us,  what  will  come  of  all  this. 

[Captain  puts  on  his  cap  and  prepares  to  go  out. 

CAPTAIN. 
Don't  expect  me  home  before  midnight. 

NURSE. 
Jesus  help  us,  what  will  be  the  end  of  this  ! 


ACT  II 

The  same  scene  as  in  the  previous  Act.    A  lighted  lamp  on 
the  table  ;  it  is  night. 

SCENE  I 
THE  DOCTOR.    LAURA. 

DOCTOR. 

From  what  I  could  find  out  in  the  course  of  our  con- 
versation, the  case  is  not  yet  clearly  proved  to  me. 
To  begin  with,  you  had  made  one  mistake  in  saying 
that  he  had  arrived  at  these  astonishing  results 
about  other  celestial  bodies  by  means  of  a  microscope. 
Now  that  I  hear  it  was  a  spectroscope,  he  is  not  only 
entirely  cleared  of  any  suspicion  of  insanity,  but  is 
shown  to  have  done  a  great  service  to  science. 
47 


THE  FATHER       ACT  11.  sc.  i. 

LAURA. 

Yes,  but  I  never  said  that. 

DOCTOR. 

Madam,  I  made  careful  notes  of  our  conversation,  and  I 
remember  that  I  asked  about  this  veiy  point  because 
I  thought  that  I  could  not  have  heard  aright.  One 
must  be  scrupulous  in  making  such  assertions  when 
a  certificate  of  insanity  is  in  question. 

LAURA. 

A  certificate  of  insanity  ? 

DOCTOR. 

Yes,  you  must  surely  know  that  an  insane  person  loses 
his  civil  and  family  rights. 

LAURA. 
No,  I  did  not  know  that. 

DOCTOR. 

There  was  a  further  point  that  seems  to  me  suspicious. 
He  spoke  of  his  communications  to  his  booksellers 
having  remained  unanswered.  Permit  me  to  ask  if 
you  intercepted  them  from  motives  of  mistaken 
kindness. 

LAURA. 

Yes,  I  did.  It  was  my  duty  to  watch  over  the  interests 
of  the  household  and  I  could  not  let  him  ruin  us  all 
without  intervention. 

DOCTOR. 

Pardon  me,  but  I  think  that  you  cannot  have  considered 
the  consequences  of  such  an  act.     If  he  discovers 
48 


ACT  ii.  so.  i.       THE  FATHER 

your  secret  interference  with  his  affairs,  his  suspicions 
will  be  aroused  and  will  grow  with  the  rapidity  of 
an  avalanche.  But  besides  this,  you  have  raised 
obstacles  to  his  will  and  consequently  still  further 
provoked  his  irritability.  You  must  know  how 
maddening  it  is  to  have  your  most  ardent  desires 
thwarted  and  your  will  restrained. 

LAURA. 

As  if  I  didn't  know  that ! 

DOCTOR. 
Then  consider  what  he  must  have  gone  through. 

LAURA  (getting  up). 

It  is  midnight  and  he  hasn't  come  home.  We  may  fear 
the  worst  now. 

DOCTOR. 

But  tell  me  what  actually  happened  this  evening  after  I 
left.  I  must  know  everything. 

LAURA. 

He  talked  in  the  wildest  way  about  the  most  extra- 
ordinary things.  Such  fancies,  for  instance,  as  that 
he  is  not  the  father  of  his  child. 

DOCTOR. 

That  is  strange.  How  did  such  an  idea  come  into  his 
head. 

LAURA. 

I  really  can't  imagine,  unless  it  was  that  he  had  to  examine 
one  of  the  men  in  a  child  maintenance  case,  and  when 
D  49 


THE  FATHER       ACT  n.  sc.  i. 

I  took  the  girl's  part,  he  got  excited  and  said  that 
no  one  could  tell  who  was  father  to  a  child.  God 
knows  that  I  did  everything  to  calm  him,  but  I 
fear  that  nothing  can  help  him  now.  (Crys.) 

DOCTOR. 

This  really  cannot  be  allowed  to  go  on.  Something  must 
be  done,  without  of  course  rousing  his  suspicions. 
Tell  me,  has  the  captain  ever  had  such  delusions 
before  ? 

LAURA. 

Six  years  ago  we  had  the  same  state  of  things  and  then 
he  actually  confessed,  in  his  own  letter  to  the  doctor, 
that  he  feared  for  his  reason. 

DOCTOR. 

Ah,  yes,  this  is  of  course  a  story  that  has  deep  roots,  and 
the  sanctity  of  family  life — and  so  on — prevents.  .  .  . 
I  cannot  ask  about  everything,  but  must  keep  to  the 
surface.  What  is  done  can't  be  undone,  alas,  and 
yet  the  remedy  should  have  some  application  to  the 
past. Where  do  you  think  he  is  now  ? 

LAURA. 
I  have  no  idea.     He  has  such  wild  fancies  now. 

DOCTOR. 

Should  you  like  me  to  stay  till  he  returns  ?  I  could  say, 
to  avoid  suspicion,  that  I  had  come  to  see  your 
mother,  who  is  unwell. 

50 


ACT  ii.  sc.  i.       THE  FATHER 

LAURA. 

Yes,  that  will  do  admirably.  And  do  not  leave  us, 
Doctor ;  I  can't  tell  you  how  anxious  I  am !  But 
wouldn't  it  be  better  to  tell  him  right  out  what 
you  think  of  his  condition  ? 

DOCTOR. 

We  never  do  that  unless  the  patient  speaks  of  the  sub- 
ject himself,  and  very  rarely  even  then.  It  depends 
entirely  on  the  direction  the  case  takes.  But  we 
mustn't  stay  here  ;  perhaps  I  had  better  go  into  the 
next  room,  it  will  look  more  natural. 

LAURA. 

Yes,  it  will  be  better,  and  then  Margret  can  sit  here.  She 
is  accustomed  to  sit  up  when  he  is  out,  and  she  is 
the  only  one  too  who  has  any  power  over  him.  (Goes 
to  the  door  on  the  left)  Margret,  Margret ! 

NURSE. 
Yes,  Ma'am.     Is  the  master  home  ? 

LAURA. 

No,  but  you  are  to  sit  here  and  wait  for  him,  and  when  he 
comes  you  are  to  say  that  my  mother  is  ill  and  that 
the  Doctor  is  here  because  of  that. 

NURSE. 
Yes,  Ma'am.    I'll  see  that  it  is  all  right. 

LAURA  (opens  door  to  inner  rooms). 
Will  you  come  in  here,  Doctor  ? 

DOCTOR. 
Thanks. 

51 


THE  FATHER      ACT  n.  sc.  11. 


SCENE  II 

THE  NURSE  (sits  at  the  table  and  takes  up  a  hymn-book 
and  spectacles). 

NURSE. 
Ah  yes,  ah  yes  !  (reads  half  aloud). 

Ah,  woe  is  me,  how  sad  a  thing 

Is  life  within  this  vale  of  tears, 

Death's  angel  triumphs  like  a  king 

And  calls  aloud  to  all  the  spheres — 

Tis  vanity,  all  vanity.  Yes,  yes  !  yes,  yes  ! 

All  that  on  earth  hath  life  and  breath 

Falls  stricken  down  before  his  spear, 

And  sorrow,  saved  alone  from  death, 

Inscribes  above  the  mighty  bier — 

'Tis  vanity,  all  vanity.  Yes,  yes. 

BERTHA  (enters  with  [a  coffee-pot  and  some  needle  work  ; 
she  speaks  low). 

BERTHA. 
Margret  may  I  sit  with  you  ?     It  is  so  lonely  up  there. 

NURSE. 
Oh  !     Good  gracious,  are  you  still  up,  Bertha, 

BERTHA. 

I  must  work  at  papa's  Christmas  present,  you  see.     And 
I've  got  something  good  for  you  here. 
52 


ACT  ii.  so.  ii.      THE  FATHER 

NURSE. 

Yes,  but  dear  heart  it  won't  do.  You  have  to  get  up  in 
the  morning  and  it  is  past  twelve  o'clock. 

BERTHA. 

Well,  what  does  that  matter?  I  dare  not  sit  up  there 
alone,  I  believe  its  haunted. 

NURSE. 

There  now,  didn't  I  say  so !  Yes,  mark  my  words,  this 
house  is  no  good  place.  What  did  you  hear  ? 

BERTHA. 
Oh,  just  fancy,  I  heard  some  one  singing  up  in  the  garret. 

NURSE. 
In  the  garret  ?     At  this  time  of  night ! 

BERTHA. 

And  it  was  a  very,  very  sad  song,  such  as  I  never  heard. 
And  it  seemed  as  if  it  came  from  the  lumber-room, 
where  the  cradle  stands,  you  know,  on  the  left.  .  .  . 

NURSE. 

Oh  dear,  oh  dear !  And  it's  such  fearful  weather  to-night ! 
I  believe  the  chimneys  will  blow  down. 

Ah,  what  is  then  this  earthly  life 
But  grief,  affliction,  trouble,  strife  ? 
E'en  when  fairest  it  has  seemed 
Vanity  it  must  be  deemed. 

Yes,  dear  child,  God  send  us  a  happy  Christmas  ! 

53 


THE  FATHER     ACT  n.  sc.  m. 

BERTHA. 
Margret,  is  it  true  that  papa  is  ill  ? 

NURSE. 
Yes ;  he  is  indeed. 

BERTHA. 

Then  we  shan't  be  able  to  keep  Christmas  Eve.  But  how 
can  he  be  up  if  he  is  ill  ? 

NURSE. 

You  see,  my  child,  the  kind  of  illness  that  he  has  doesn't 
prevent  him  from  being  up.  Hush,  there's  someone 
out  in  the  hall.  Go  to  bed  now  and  take  the  coffee- 
pot away,  or  the  master  will  be  angry. 

BERTHA  (going  out  with  the  tray). 

Good-night,  Margret ! 

NURSE. 

Good-night,  my  child.     God  bless  you  ! 

SCENE  III 
NURSE.     CAPTAIN  (takes  off  his  overcoat). 

CAPTAIN. 
Are  you  still  up  ?     Go  to  bed. 

NURSE. 

I  was  only  waiting  till  .... 

[Captain  lights  a  candle,  opens  his  desk,  sits  down 
at  it,  and  takes  letters  and  newspapers  out  of  his 
pocket. 

54 


ACT  ii.  sc.  in.     THE  FATHER 

NURSE. 
Mr  Adolf. 

CAPTAIN. 
What  do  you  want  ? 

NURSE. 

Old  mistress  is  ill,  and  the  doctor  is  here. 

CAPTAIN. 

Is  it  anything  dangerous  ? 

NURSE. 
No,  I  don't  think  so.     It  is  only  a  cold. 

CAPTAIN  (gets  up). 
Who  was  the  father  of  your  child,  Margret  ? 

NURSE. 

Oh,  I  have  told  you  that  many  and  many  a  time  ;  it  was 
that  scamp  Johansson. 

CAPTAIN. 
Are  you  sure  that  it  was  he  ? 

NURSE. 

How  childish  you  are  ;  of  course  I  am  sure  of  it,  since  he 
was  the  only  one. 

CAPTAIN. 

Yes  ;  but  was  he  sure  that  he  was  the  only  one  ?  No  ; 
he  could  not  be,  but  you  could  be  sure  of  it.  You 
see  that's  the  difference. 

NURSE. 
I  can't  see  any  difference. 

55 


THE  FATHER     ACT  n.  so.  iv. 

CAPTAIN. 

No  ;  you  cannot  see  it,  but  the  difference  is  there  all  the 
same.  ( Turns  over  the  pages  of  a  photograph  album 
that  is  on  the  table.)  Do  you  think  Bertha  is  like 
me  ?  [Looks  at  a  portrait  in  the  album. 

NURSE. 
Why,  yes ;  you  are  as  like  as  two  peas. 

CAPTAIN. 
Did  Johansson  confess  that  he  was  the  father  ? 

NURSE. 
He  had  no  choice. 

CAPTAIN. 

How  dreadful !     There  is  the  doctor. 

SCENE  IV 
CAPTAIN.     NURSE.    DOCTOR. 

CAPTAIN. 
Good  evening,  Doctor.     How  is  my  mother-in-law  ? 

DOCTOR. 

Oh,  it  is  not  at  all  serious  ;  it  is  merely  a  slight  sprain  of 
the  left  foot. 

CAPTAIN. 

I  thought  Margret  said  that  it  was  a  cold.  There 
seem  to  be  different  interpretations  of  the  same  case. 
Go  to  bed,  Margret.  [Nurse  goes. 

(A  Pause.) 
56 


ACT  ii.  so.  iv.     THE  FATHER 

CAPTAIN. 
Do  sit  down,  Doctor  Ostermark. 

DOCTOR  (sits  down). 
Thanks. 

CAPTAIN. 

Is  it  true  that  you  obtain  striped  foals  if  you  cross  a 
zebra  and  a  mare  ? 

DOCTOR  (astonished}. 
Perfectly  true. 

CAPTAIN. 

Is  it  true  that  the  foals  continue  to  be  striped  if  the  breed 
is  carried  on  with  a  stallion  ? 

DOCTOR. 
Yes,  that  is  also  true. 

CAPTAIN. 

Therefore,  under  certain  conditions,  a  stallion  can  be  sire 
to  striped  foals  ? 

DOCTOR. 
Yes,  so  it  appears. 

CAPTAIN. 

That  is  to  say :  the  offspring's  likeness  to  the  father  proves 
nothing. 

DOCTOR. 
Well  .  .  . 

CAPTAIN. 

That  is  to  say,  paternity  cannot  be  proved. 

DOCTOR. 
H'm  .  .  .  Well ! 

57 


THE  FATHER    ACT  n.  so.  iv, 

CAPTAIN. 
You  are  a  widower  and  have  had  children  ? 

DOCTOR. 
Ye-es. 

CAPTAIN. 

Did  you  never  see  how  ridiculous  you  were  as  a  father  ? 
I  know  nothing  so  comical  as  to  see  a  father  leading 
his  child  about  the  streets,  or  to  hear  a  father  talk 
of  his  children.  "  My  wife's  children,"  he  ought  to 
say.  Did  you  never  realise  how  false  your  position 
was  ?  Were  you  never  troubled  by  doubts,  I  won't 
say  suspicions,  for  I  assume,  as  a  gentleman,  that 
your  wife  was  above  suspicion  ? 

DOCTOR. 

No,  really,  I  never  was,  and,  indeed,  Captain,  a  man  must 
take  his  children  on  trust  as  Goethe,  I  think,  says. 

CAPTAIN. 
On  trust  when  there  is  a  woman  in  the  case  ?  that  is  risky. 

DOCTOR. 
Oh !  there  are  so  many  kinds  of  women. 

CAPTAIN. 

Modern  investigation  has  pronounced  that  there  is  only 
one  kind !  .  .  .  When  I  was  young  I  was  strong 
and — if  I  may  boast — handsome.  I  can  only  remem- 
ber two  momentary  impressions  that  in  recalling  them 
have  caused  me  to  doubt  this.  I  was  once  on  board  a 
steamer  sitting  with  a  few  friends  in  the  fore-saloon. 
The  young  stewardess  came  and  flung  herself  down 
58 


ACT  ii.  sc.  iv.     THE  FATHER 

by  me,  burst  into  tears,  and  told  us  that  her  sweet- 
heart was  drowned.  We  pitied  her,  and  I  ordered 
some  champagne.  After  the  second  glass,  I  touched 
her  foot,  after  the  fourth  her  knee,  and  before  morn- 
ing I  had  consoled  her. 

DOCTOR. 
One  swallow  does  not  make  a  summer. 

CAPTAIN. 

Now  comes  the  second,  and  that  was  really  a  summer 
swallow.  I  was  at  Lysekil.  A  young  woman  was 
staying  there.  She  had  her  children  with  her,  but 
her  husband  was  in  town.  She  was  religious,  had 
extremely  severe  principles,  preached  morality  to  me, 
and  was,  I  believe,  entirely  virtuous.  I  lent  her  some 
books,  and  when  she  was  leaving  she  unexpectedly 
enough  returned  them.  Three  months  later  I  found 
a  visiting  card  in  those  very  books  with  a  fairly  plain 
declaration.  It  was  innocent,  as  innocent  that  is  to 
say  as  a  declaration  of  love  from  a  married  woman 
to  a  strange  man  who  never  made  any  advances  can 
be.  Now  comes  the  moral.  Whatever  you  do,  don't 
believe  too  much. 

DOCTOR. 
But  don't  believe  too  little  either. 

CAPTAIN. 

No.     Not  that  either.     But  don't  you  see,  Doctor  Oster- 
mark,  the  woman  was  so  unconsciously  dishonest 
that  she  spoke  of  her  infatuation  for  me  to  her  hus- 
band.    This  very  unconsciousness  of  their  instinctive 
59 


THE  FATHER     ACT  n.  so.  iv. 

duplicity  is  what  is  so  dangerous.  It  is,  I  grant  you, 
an  extenuating  circumstance,  but  it  cannot  make 
me  reverse  my  judgment,  only  soften  it. 

DOCTOR. 

Captain,  your  thoughts  are  taking  a  morbid  direction,  and 
you  ought  to  control  them. 

CAPTAIN. 

You  must  not  use  the  word  morbid.  All  steam  boilers, 
as  you  know,  explode  when  the  pressure  gauge  regis- 
ters 100,  but  the  scale  is  not  the  same  for  all  boilers ; 
do  you  understand  ?  In  the  meantime  you  are  here 
to  watch  me.  If  I  only  were  not  a  man  I  should 
have  the  right  of  making  accusations,  or  complaints 
as  they  are  so  cleverly  called,  and,  perhaps,  I  should 
be  able  to  give  you  the  whole  diagnosis,  and  what  is 
more,  the  history  of  my  disease ;  but  I  am  unfor- 
tunately a  man,  and  there  is  nothing  for  me  but  to 
fold  my  arms  across  my  breast  like  the  Roman,  and 
hold  my  breath  till  I  die.  Good-night. 

DOCTOR. 

Captain,  if  you  are  ill,  it  will  not  offend  your  dignity  as  a 
man  to  tell  me  all.  Indeed,  I  am  bound  to  hear  the 
other  side. 

CAPTAIN. 
It  is  enough  that  you  have  heard  the  one,  I  imagine. 

DOCTOR. 

No,  Captain.     And  do  you   know  when  I   heard  Mrs 
Alving  eulogise  her  dead  husband,  I  thought  to  my- 
self it  was  a  confounded  pity  the  fellow  was  dead. 
60 


ACT  ir.  sc.  v.       THE  FATHER 

CAPTAIN. 

Do  you  suppose  that  he  would  have  spoken  if  he  had 
been  alive  !  And  do  you  suppose  that  any  dead 
husbands  would  be  believed  if  they  were  to  come  to 
life  ?  Good-night,  Doctor.  You  hear  that  I  am 
calm,  and  you  can  safely  go  to  bed. 

DOCTOR. 

Good-night,  then,  Captain.  I  can  take  no  farther  part  in 
this  affair. 

CAPTAIN. 
Are  we  enemies  ? 

DOCTOR. 

Far  from  it  ?  Only  it  is  a  pity  that  we  cannot  be  friends. 
Good-night.  [Goes. 

[The  Captain  follows  the  doctor  to  the  door  in  the 
background,  and  then  goes  to  the  door  at  the  left 
and  opens  it  slightly. 

CAPTAIN. 

Come  in,  I  want  to  talk  to  you !  I  heard ,  you  standing 
out  there  listening. 


SCENE  V 
LAURA  (embarrassed).  CAPTAIN  (sits  down  at  the  bureau). 

CAPTAIN. 

It  is  late,  but  we  must  talk  things  out.     Sit  down.     (A 
pause.)    I  have  been  at  the  post  office  this  evening 
61 


THE  FATHER      ACT  n.  sc.  v. 

to  fetch  the  letters.  From  these  it  appears  that  you 
have  kept  back  my  letters,  both  on  their  departure 
and  arrival.  The  direct  consequence  of  this  is  that 
the  delay  has  entirely  frustrated  the  results  I  hoped 
for  from  my  work. 

LAURA. 

It  was  an  act  of  kindness  on  my  part,  since  you  neglected 
your  professional  duties  for  this  other  work. 

CAPTAIN. 

It  surely  cannot  have  been  kindness,  for  you  knew  quite 
well  that  I  should  one  day  win  more  renown  from 
that  than  from  the  service ;  but  you  were  particularly 
anxious  that  I  should  not  distinguish  myself,  lest 
your  own  insignificance  should  be  eclipsed.  In  con- 
sequence of  this  I  have  intercepted  letters  addressed 
to  you. 

LAURA. 
That  is  very  noble  of  you. 

CAPTAIN. 

I  see  you  have  a  high  opinion  of  me. — It  appears  from 
these  letters  that  for  some  time  past  you  have  been 
arraying  my  former  friends  against  me  by  spread- 
ing reports  about  my  mental  condition.  And  you 
have  succeeded  in  your  efforts,  for  now  there  is  not 
more  than  one  person  from  the  colonel  down  to  the 
cook  who  believes  me  to  be  sane.  Now  the  facts 
about  my  illness  are  these  :  my  reason  is  unaffected, 
as  you  know,  so  that  I  can  discharge  both  my  duties 
62 


ACT  ii.  sc.  v.      THE  FATHER 

to  the  service  and  my  duties  as  a  father ;  ray  nerves 
are  still  more  or  less  under  my  control,  and  will 
continue  so  as  long  as  my  will  remains  fairly  intact. 
You  have,  however,  so  thoroughly  undermined  it  that 
it  will  soon  be  ready  to  fly  off  the  cog-wheel,  and 
then  the  whole  mechanism  will  go  to  smash.  I  will 
not  appeal  to  your  feelings,  for  you  have  none,  that 
is  your  strength  ;  but  I  will  appeal  to  your  interests. 

LAURA. 

Let  me  hear. 

CAPTAIN. 

You  have  succeeded  by  this  conduct  in  arousing  my 
suspicions  to  such  an  extent  that  my  judgment  is 
nearly  destroyed,  and  my  thoughts  begin  to  wander. 
This  is  that  approaching  insanity  you  are  waiting 
for,  and  that  may  come  now  at  any  time.  The 
question  then  arises  for  you:  is  it  more  to  your 
interest  that  I  should  be  sane  or  insane.  Consider ! 
If  I  succumb  I  shall  have  to  leave  the  service,  and 
you  will  be  in  a  very  awkward  position.  If  I  die 
my  life  insurance  will  fall  to  you.  But  if  I  take  my 
own  life  you  will  get  nothing.  It  is  therefore  to 
your  interest  that  I  should  live  out  my  life. 

LAURA. 
Is  this  a  trap  ? 

CAPTAIN. 

Of  course !  But  it  rests  with  you  to  avoid  it  or  to  run 
your  head  into  it. 

LAURA. 

You  say  that  you  will  kill  yourself?    You  shall  not  do  it ! 

63 


THE  FATHER      ACT  n.  so.  v. 

CAPTAIN. 

Don't  be  sure.     Do  you  think  a  man  can  live  when  he 
has  nothing  and  nobody  to  live  for  ? 

LAURA. 

You  surrender  then  ? 

CAPTAIN. 
No,  I  offer  you  peace. 

LAURA. 
The  conditions  ? 

CAPTAIN. 

That  I  may  keep  my  reason.  Deliver  me  from  my 
suspicions  and  I  throw  up  the  struggle. 

LAURA. 

What  suspicions  ? 

CAPTAIN. 
About  Bertha's  origin. 

LAURA. 
Is  there  any  doubt  about  that  ? 

CAPTAIN. 
Yes,  I  have  doubts,  and  you  have  awakened  them. 

LAURA. 
I? 

CAPTAIN. 

Yes,  you  have  dropped  them  like  henbane  in  my  ears, 
and  circumstances  have  given  them  growth.  Deliver 
me  from  uncertainty,  tell  me  outright  that  my 
suspicions  are  justified,  and  I  will  forgive  you  in 
advance. 

64 


ACT  ii.  so.  v.      THE  FATHER 

LAURA. 

You  really  can't  expect  me  to  take  upon  myself  a  sin  that 
I  have  not  committed. 

CAPTAIN. 

What  can  it  matter  when  you  are  certain  that  I  shall  not 
betray  you  ?  Do  you  think  that  a  man  would  be 
likely  to  blazon  his  own  shame  abroad. 

LAURA. 

If  I  say  it  is  not  true,  you  won't  be  convinced ;  but  if  I 
say  it  is  true,  you  will  be  convinced.  You  seem  to 
hope  it  is  true  ? 

CAPTAIN. 

Yes,  strangely  enough ;  no  doubt  because  the  first  sup- 
position can't  be  proved,  only  the  last 

LAURA. 
Have  you  any  reasons  for  your  suspicions  ? 

CAPTAIN. 

Yes,  and  no. 

LAURA, 

I  believe  that  you  want  to  prove  me  guilty,  so  that  you 
can  get  rid  of  me  and  have  absolute  control  over  the 
child.  But  you  won't  lure  me  into  any  such  snare. 

CAPTAIN. 

You  surely  don't  think  that  I  would  adopt  another  man's 
child,  if  I  were  convinced  of  your  guilt  ? 
E  65 


THE  FATHER      ACT  n.  so.  v. 

LAURA. 

No,  I'm  sure  you  wouldn't,  and  that  convinces  me  that 
you  lied  just  now  when  you  said  that  you  forgave 
me  in  advance. 

CAPTAIN  (gets  up). 

Laura,  save  me  and  my  reason.  You  don't  seem  to 
understand  what  I  say.  If  the  child  is  not  mine,  I 
have  no  control  over  it,  and  don't  want  to  have  any, 
and  that  is  precisely  what  you  want,  isn't  it  ?  You 
will  have  the  power  over  the  child,  and  I  shall  be  left 
to  maintain  you  both. 

LAURA. 

The  power,  yes.  Has  this  whole  life  and  death  struggle 
been  fought  for  anything  but  the  power  ? 

CAPTAIN. 

You  know  I  do  not  believe  in  a  future  life.  The  child 
was  my  future  life.  She  was  my  conception  of 
immortality,  and  perhaps  the  only  one  that  has  any 
analogy  in  reality.  If  you  deprive  me  of  that,  you 
cut  short  my  existence. 

LAURA. 

Why  did  we  not  separate  in  time  ? 

CAPTAIN. 

Because   the  child  bound  us  together;    but  the  bond 

became  a  chain.     And  how  did  it  happen ;  how  ?  I 

have  never  thought  of  this,  but  now  the  memory  of  it 

rises  up  in  accusation,  perhaps  in  condemnation.     We 

66 


ACT  ii.  sc.  v.      THE  FATHER 

had  been  married  two  years,  and  had  no  child,  you 
best  know  why.  I  fell  ill  and  lay  at  the  point  of  death. 
In  an  interval  of  the  fever  I  heard  voices  outside  in 
the  drawing-room.  You  and  the  solicitor  were  talk- 
ing about  the  fortune  that  I  then  still  possessed.  He 
explained  that  you  could  not  inherit  anything,  because 
we  had  no  children,  and  asked  you  if  you  were 
enceinte.  What  you  answered  I  did  not  hear.  I 
recovered,  and  we  had  a  child.  Who  is  it's  father  ? 

LAURA. 
You. 

CAPTAIN. 

No,  it  is  not  I.  There  is  a  buried  crime  here  which  begins 
to  give  off  poisonous  exhalations,  and  what  a  hellish 
crime.  You  have  been  tender  enough  about  freeing 
black  slaves,  but  you  have  kept  white  ones  yourself. 
I  have  worked  and  slaved  for  you,  your  child,  your 
mother,  your  servants ;  I  have  sacrificed  career 
and  promotion,  I  have  endured  torture,  flagellation, 
sleeplessness,  unrest  for  your  sake,  until  my  hair  has 
grown  grey ;  and  all  in  order  that  you  might  enjoy 
a  life  without  care,  and  when  you  grew  old,  enjoy 
it  over  again  in  your  child.  I  have  borne  it  all  with- 
out complaint,  because  I  thought  myself  the  father  of 
the  child.  This  is  the  crudest  form  of  theft,  the  most 
brutal  slavery.  I  have  had  seventeen  years  of  penal 
servitude  and  have  been  innocent.  What  can  you 
give  me  in  return  for  this  ? 

LAURA. 
Now  you  are  quite  mad  ! 

67 


THE  FATHER      ACT  n.  sc.  v. 

CAPTAIN  (sits). 

That  is  your  hope !  .  .  .  And  I  have  seen  how  you  have 
laboured  to  conceal  your  sin.  I  have  had  sympathy 
with  you  because  I  did  not  understand  your  grief; 
I  have  often  lulled  your  evil  conscience  to  rest, 
because  I  thought  I  was  chasing  away  a  morbid 
thought ;  I  have  heard  you  cry  out  in  your  sleep 
without  allowing  myself  to  listen.  Now  I  remember 
the  night  before  last — Bertha's  birthday — I  was 
sitting  up  reading  between  two  and  three  in  the 
morning.  You  screamed  as  if  someone  were  strangling 
you  "  don't,  don't !  "  I  knocked  on  the  wall  because 
I  wished  to  hear  no  more.  I  have  long  had  my 
suspicions,  but  I  did  not  dare  to  hear  them  confirmed. 
I  have  suffered  this  for  you,  what  will  you  do  for  me  ? 

LAURA. 

What  can  I  do  ?  I  can  swear  by  God  and  all  that  I  hold 
sacred  that  you  are  Bertha's  father. 

CAPTAIN. 

Of  what  use  is  that,  as  you  have  said  before  that  a  mother 
can  and  ought  to  commit  any  crime  for  her  child.  I 
implore  you  by  the  memory  of  the  past,  I  implore  you 
as  a  wounded  man  begs  for  a  death-blow,  to  tell  me 
all.  Don't  you  see  that  I  am  as  helpless  as  a  child, 
don't  you  hear  that  I  am  complaining  as  to  a  mother, 
won't  you  forget  that  I  am  a  man,  that  I  am  a  soldier 
who  with  a  word  can  tame  men  and  beasts ;  I  simply 
implore  pity  like  a  sick  man,  I  lay  down  the  tokens  of 
my  power  and  pray  for  mercy  on  my  life. 
68 


ACT  ii.  so.  v.      THE  FATHER 

LAURA  (approaches  him  and  lays  her  hand  on 

his  brow). 
What !     You  are  crying,  man  ! 

CAPTAIN. 

Yes,  I  am  crying,  although  I  am  a  man.  But  has  not  a 
man  eyes  ?  Has  not  a  man  hands,  limbs,  senses, 
opinions,  passions  ?  Is  he  not  fed  with  the  same 
food,  hurt  by  the  same  weapons,  warmed  and  cooled 
by  the  same  summer  and  winter  as  a  woman  is  ?  If 
you  prick  us  do  we  not  bleed  ?  If  you  tickle  us  do 
we  not  laugh  ?  If  you  poison  us  do  we  not  die  ? 
Why  should  not  a  man  complain,  a  soldier  cry? 
Because  it  is  unmanly  ?  Why  is  it  unmanly  ? 

LAURA. 

Cry  then,  my  child,  and  you  will  have  your  mother  with 
you  again.  Do  you  remember  that  it  was  as  your 
second  mother  I  first  entered  your  life.  Your  great 
strong  body  was  without  nerve.  You  were  a  giant 
child  that  had  either  come  too  early  into  the  world, 
or  perhaps  was  not  wanted. 

CAPTAIN. 

Yes,  that's  just  how  it  was.  My  father  and  mother  did 
not  want  me  and  consequently  I  was  born  without 
a  will.  I  naturally  enough  thought  that  I  was 
completing  myself  when  you  and  I  became  one, 
and  therefore  you  got  the  upper  hand,  and  I,  the 
commander  in  barracks  and  before  the  troops,  be- 
came obedient  to  you,  grew  by  you,  looked  up  to 
you  as  a  highly  gifted  being,  listened  to  you  as  if  I 
had  been  your  ignorant  child. 
69 


THE  FATHER      ACT  n.  sc.  v. 

LAURA. 

Yes,  so  it  was,  and  therefore  I  loved  you  as  my  child. 
But  you  know,  you  must  have  seen,  when  the  nature 
of  your  feelings  changed  and  you  appeared  as  my 
lover  I  blushed  and  the  joy  of  your  embraces  turned 
to  remorse  as  if  my  blood  were  ashamed.  The 
mother  became  the  mistress.  Ugh ! 

CAPTAIN. 

I  saw  but  did  not  understand  it.  And  when  I  imagined 
that  you  despised  me  for  my  unmanliness,  I  wanted 
to  win  you  as  a  woman  by  being  a  man. 

LAURA. 

Yes,  but  there  was  your  mistake.  The  mother  was  your 
friend,  you  see,  but  the  woman  was  your  enemy,  and 
love  between  the  sexes  is  strife.  Do  not  believe 
either  that  I  gave  myself;  I  did  not  give,  but  I  took 
— what  I  wanted.  You  had  one  advantage  how- 
ever, that  I  realised  and  wanted  you  to  realise. 

CAPTAIN. 

You  always  had  the  advantage.  You  could  hypnotize 
me  when  I  was  wide  awake,  so  that  I  neither  saw 
nor  heard,  but  merely  obeyed  ;  you  could  give  me  a 
raw  potato  and  make  me  imagine  it  was  a  peach  ; 
you  could  force  me  to  admire  your  foolish  ideas  as 
if  they  were  strokes  of  genius ;  you  could  lead  me 
into  crime,  yes,  even  into  dishonourable  actions. 
For  you  were  without  understanding,  and  instead 
of  carrying  out  my  ideas  you  acted  on  your  own 
initiative.  But  when  at  last  I  awoke  to  reflection 
70 


ACT  ii.  sc.  v.      THE  FATHER 

and  realised  that  my  honour  was  outraged,  I  wanted 
to  blot  out  the  memory  by  a  great  deed,  an  achieve- 
ment, a  discovery,  or  an  honourable  suicide.  I 
wanted  to  go  to  the  wars,  but  was  not  permitted. 
It  was  then  that  I  threw  myself  into  science.  And 
now,  when  I  was  about  to  stretch  out  my  hand  and 
gather  in  its  fruits,  you  suddenly  cut  off  my  arm. 
Now  T  am  dishonoured  and  can  live  no  longer,  for  a 
man  cannot  live  without  honour. 

LAURA, 
But  a  woman  ? 

CAPTAIN. 

Yes,  for  she  has  her  children,  which  he  has  not.  But  we 
and  the  rest  of  mankind  lived  our  lives,  unconscious 
as  children,  full  of  imaginations,  ideals,  and  illusions, 
and  then  we  awoke;  it  was  all  over.  But  we 
awoke  with  our  feet  on  the  pillow,  and  he  who 
waked  us  was  himself  a  sleep-walker.  When  women 
grow  old  and  cease  to  be  women,  they  get  beards  on 
their  chins ;  I  wonder  what  men  get  who  grow  old 
and  cease  to  be  men.  Those  who  crowed  were  no 
longer  cocks  but  capons,  and  the  pullets  answered 
the  call,  so  that  when  we  thought  the  sun  was  about 
to  rise  we  found  ourselves  in  the  bright  moonlight 
amidst  ruins,  just  as  in  the  good  old  times.  It  had 
only  been  a  little  morning  slumber  with  wild  dreams, 
and  there  was  no  awakening. 

LAURA. 

Do  you  know,  you  should  have  been  a  poet ! 

71 


THE  FATHER      ACT  n.  sc.  v. 

CAPTAIN. 
Very  possibly. 

LAURA. 

Now  I  am  sleepy,  so  if  you  have  any  more  fancies,  keep 
them  till  to-morrow. 

CAPTAIN. 
A  word  more  first  about  realities.     Do  you  hate  me  ? 

LAURA. 

Yes,  sometimes,  when  you  are  a  man. 

CAPTAIN. 

This  is  race-hatred.  If  it  is  true  that  we  are  descended 
from  monkeys,  it  must  at  least  be  from  two  separate 
species.  We  are  not  like  one  another,  are  we  ? 

LAURA. 
What  do  you  mean  by  all  this  ? 

CAPTAIN. 
I  realise  that  one  of  us  must  go  under  in  this  struggle. 

LAURA. 
Which  ? 

CAPTAIN. 
The  weaker,  of  course. 

LAURA. 
And  the  stronger  will  be  in  the  right. 

CAPTAIN. 
Certainly,  since  he  has  the  power. 

72 


ACT  ii.  so.  v.      THE  FATHER 

LAURA. 
Then  I  am  right. 

CAPTAIN. 

Have  you  the  power  already,  then  ? 

LAURA, 

Yes,  the  power  of  the  law,  by  means  of  which  I  shall 
put  you  under  control  to-morrow. 

CAPTAIN. 
Under  control ! 

LAURA. 

And  then  I  shall  educate  my  child  myself  without  listen- 
ing to  your  visions. 

CAPTAIN. 
And  who  will  pay  for  the  education  when  I  am  not  there  ? 

LAURA. 
Your  pension. 

CAPTAIN  (goes  menacingly  towards  her). 
How  can  you  have  me  put  under  control  ? 

LAURA  (takes  out  a  letter). 

By  means  of  this  letter  of  which  an  attested  copy  is  lying 
before  the  Commissioners  in  Lunacy. 

CAPTAIN. 
What  letter  ? 

LAURA  (moves  backwards  towards  the  door  on  the  left). 

Yours !     Your  declaration  to  the  doctor  that  you  are 
insane.  [Captain  looks  at  her  in  silence. 

73 


THE  FATHER     ACT  in.  sc.  i. 

LAURA. 

Now  you  have  fulfilled  your  function  as  an  unfortunately 
necessary  father  and  breadwinner.  You  are  not 
needed  any  longer  and  you  must  go.  You  must  go 
since  you  have  realised  that  my  intellect  is  as  strong 
as  my  will,  and  since  you  will  not  stay  and  acknow- 
ledge it. 

[The  Captain  goes  to  the  table,  takes  the  lighted 
lamp  and  throws  it  at  Laura,  who  escapes  back- 
wards through  the  door. 


ACT  III 

Same  scene  as  in  former  acts.    Another  lamp — the  private  door 
is  barricaded  with  a  chair. 

SCENE  I 
LAURA.    NURSE. 

LAURA. 

Did  he  give  you  the  keys  ? 

NURSE. 

Give  them  to  me,  no,  heaven  help  us,  but  I  took  them 
from  the  things  that  Nb'jd  had  out  to  brush. 

LAURA. 
Then  it  is  Nb'jd  who  is  on  duty  to-day. 

NURSE. 
Yes,  it  is  Nb'jd. 

74 


ACT  in.  sc.  i.      THE  FATHER 

LAURA. 
Give  me  the  keys. 

NURSE. 

Yes,  but  it  seems  like  downright  stealing.  Do  you  hear 
his  footsteps  up  there,  Ma'am.  Backwards  and  for- 
wards, backwards  and  forwards. 

LAURA. 
Is  the  door  safely  fastened  ? 

NURSE. 
Oh  yes,  it's  fastened  safely  enough. 

LAURA  (opens  the  desk  and  sits  down  at  it). 
Control  your  feelings,  Margret.     Nothing  but  calm  can 
save  us  all.     (Knock.)    Who  is  it  ? 

NURSE  (opens  passage  door). 
It  is  Nb'jd. 

LAURA. 
Let  him  come  in. 

NOJD  (comes  in). 
A  note  from  the  colonel. 

LAURA, 

Bring  it  here  (reads).     Ah  ! Nb'jd  have  you  taken  all 

the  cartridges  out  of  the  guns  and  pouches  ? 

NOJD. 
I  have  done  what  you  ordered,  Ma'am. 

LAURA. 
Then  wait  outside  while  I  answer  the  colonel's  letter. 

[Ndf'd  goes. 
75 


THE  FATHER     ACT  m.  sc.  n. 

LAURA  (writes). 

NURSE. 
Listen,  Ma'am.     Whatever  is  he  doing  up  there  now. 

LAURA. 
Be  silent  while  I  write.     (The  sound  of  sawing  is  heard.) 

NURSE  (half  aloud  to  herself). 

Oh,  may  God  in  His  mercy  help  us  all !  Where  will  this 
end ! 

LAURA. 

There  ;  give  this  to  Nojd.  And  my  mother  is  to  know 
nothing  of  all  this.  Do  you  hear  ? 

[Nurse  goes  to  door. 

(Laura  opens  drawers  in  top  of  bureau  and  takes  out 
papers.) 

SCENE  II 

LAURA.     PASTOR  (he  takes  a  chair  and  sits  by 
Laura  at  the  bureau). 

PASTOR. 

Good  evening,  sister.  I  have  been  away  all  day  as  you 
heard,  and  have  only  just  got  back.  Distressing 
things  have  happened  here. 

LAURA. 

Yes,  brother,  never  before  have  I  gone  through  such  a 
night  and  such  a  day. 

76 


ACT  in.  sc.  ii.     THE  FATHER 

PASTOR. 
Ah,  but  at  all  events  I  see  that  you  are  none  the  worse. 

LAURA. 

No,  God  be  thanked,  but  think  what  might  have  happened! 

PASTOR. 

Do  tell  me  how  it  all  began.  I  have  heard  so  many 
different  accounts. 

LAURA. 

It  began  with  his  wild  fancy  that  he  was  not  Bertha's 
father,  and  ended  with  his  throwing  the  lighted  lamp 
in  my  face. 

PASTOR. 

But  that  is  dreadful !  It  is  fully  developed  insanity.  And 
what  is  to  be  done  now  ? 

LAURA. 

We  must  try  to  prevent  further  violence,  and  the  doctor 
has  sent  to  the  hospital  for  a  strait-waistcoat.  In 
the  meantime  I  have  written  to  the  colonel,  and  am 
now  trying  to  acquaint  myself  with  the  affairs  of  the 
household,  which  he  has  conducted  in  a  most  repre- 
hensible manner. 

PASTOR. 

It  is  a  sad  story,  but  I  have  always  expected  something  of 
the  sort.  Fire  and  water  must  end  in  exploding ! 
What  have  you  got  there  in  the  drawers. 

LAURA  (opens  a  drawer  in  the  bureau). 
Look,  he  seems  to  have  kept  everything  here. 

77 


THE  FATHER    ACT  in.  sc.  n. 

PASTOR  (looking  through  the  drawer}. 

Good  heavens,  he  has  your  doll  here,  and  there  is  your 
christening  cap  and  Bertha's  rattle ;  and  your  letters ; 
and  the  locket  (drys  his  eyes).  He  must  after  all 
have  loved  you  very  dearly,  Laura.  I  never  kept 
such  things  as  these  ! 

LAURA, 

I  believe  that  he  used  to  love  me,  but  time — time  changes 
so  many  things. 

PASTOR. 

What  is  this  great  paper  ?  The  receipt  for  a  grave ! 
Yes,  better  the  grave  than  the  lunatic  asylum ! 
Laura,  tell  me,  are  you  blameless  in  ah1  this  ? 

LAURA. 

I  ?  Why  should  I  be  to  blame  because  a  man  goes  out 
of  his  mind  ? 

PASTOR. 

Ah,  well !  I  shall  say  nothing !  Blood  is  thicker  than 
water  after  all ! 

LAURA. 
What  do  you  dare  to  mean  ? 

PASTOR  (gazing  at  her). 
Listen ! 

LAURA. 
What? 

PASTOR. 

Listen.  You  surely  cannot  deny  that  it  is  in  conformity 
with  your  wishes  that  you  will  be  able  to  educate 
your  child  yourself? 

78 


ACT  in.  sc.  ii.     THE  FATHER 

LAURA. 
I  don't  understand. 

PASTOR. 
How  I  admire  you ! 

LAURA. 
Me?  H'm! 

PASTOR. 

And  I  shall  become  the  guardian  of  that  freethinker  up 
there.  Do  you  know  I  have  always  considered  him 
as  a  weed  in  our  garden. 

LAURA  (gives  a  short  suppressed  laugh,  and  t/ien 

becomes  suddenly  grave). 
And  you  dare  to  say  that  to  me — his  wife  ? 

PASTOR. 

You  are  strong,  Laura,  incredibly  strong !  Like  a  trapped 
fox,  you  would  rather  bite  off  your  own  leg  than  let 
yourself  be  caught !  Like  a  master  thief — no  accom- 
plice, not  even  your  own  conscience !  Look  at 
yourself  in  the  glass  !  You  dare  not ! 

LAURA, 
I  never  use  a  looking-glass ! 

PASTOR, 

No,  you  dare  not!  Let  me  look  at  your  hand.  Not 
a  treacherous  blood  stain,  not  a  trace  of  cunning 
poison !  A  little  innocent  murder  that  cannot  be 
reached  by  the  law ;  an  unconscious  sin ;  uncon- 
scious !  That  is  a  splendid  invention !  Do  you  hear 
how  he  is  working  up  there  ?  Beware !  if  the  man 
gets  out  he  will  make  short  work  of  you. 
79 


THE  FATHER   ACT  m.  sc.  m. 

LAURA. 

You  talk  as  much  as  if  you  had  a  bad  conscience. 
Accuse  me  if  you  can ! 

PASTOR, 
I  cannot. 

LAURA. 

You  see !  You  cannot,  and  therefore  I  am  innocent. 
You  take  care  of  your  ward,  and  I  will  look  after 
mine  !  There's  the  doctor. 

SCENE  III 
THE  FORMER.      DOCTOR. 

LAURA  (getting  up). 

Good  evening,  Doctor.  You  at  least  will  help  me,  will 
you  not?  But  unfortunately  there  is  not  much  to 
be  done.  Do  you  hear  how  he  is  going  on  up  there  ? 
Are  you  convinced  now  ? 

DOCTOR. 

I  am  convinced  that  an  act  of  violence  has  been  com- 
mitted, but  the  question  is  whether  that  act  of 
violence  is  to  be  considered  as  an  outbreak  of  anger 
or  of  madness. 

PASTOR. 

But  apart  from  the  actual  outbreak  you  must  acknowledge 
that  his  ideas  are  those  of  a  monomaniac. 

DOCTOR, 

I  think  that  your  ideas,  Pastor,  are  much  more  those  of  a 
monomaniac. 

80 


ACT  in.  so.  in.    THE  FATHER 

PASTOR. 
My  firmly-rooted  convictions  about  the  highest  things — 

DOCTOR, 

We  will  put  convictions  on  one  side.  Madam,  it  rests 
with  you  to  decide  whether  your  husband  has  made 
himself  liable  to  imprisonment  and  fine  or  to  deten- 
tion in  an  asylum !  What  do  you  think  of  the 
behaviour  ? 

LAURA. 

I  will  not  answer  for  it  now. 

DOCTOR. 

Then  you  have  no  firmly-rooted  convictions  as  to  what 
is  most  advantageous  in  the  interests  of  the  family  ? 
What  do  you  say,  Pastor  ? 

PASTOR. 

Well,  there  will  be  a  scandal  in  either  case.  It  is  not 
easy  to  say. 

LAURA. 

But  if  he  is  only  sentenced  to  a  fine  for  violence,  he  will 
be  able  to  repeat  the  violence. 

DOCTOR. 

And  if  he  is  sent  to  prison  he  will  soon  be  out  again. 
Therefore  we  consider  it  most  advantageous  for  all 
parties  that  he  should  immediately  be  treated  as 
insane.  Where  is  the  nurse  ? 

LAURA. 
Why? 

F  81 


THE  FATHER   ACT  in.  so.  in. 

DOCTOR 

She  must  put  the  strait-waistcoat  on  the  patient  when  I 
have  talked  to  him  and  given  the  order  !  But  not 
before.  I  have — the — the  garment  out  here.  (Goes 
out  into  the  hall  and  comes  in  with  a  large  parcel.) 
Please  ask  the  nurse  to  come  in.  [Laura  rings. 

PASTOR. 
Shocking !     Shocking !  [Enter  Nurse. 

DOCTOR  (takes  out  the  strait-waistcoat). 

Please  pay  attention !  I  wish  you  to  slip  this  strait- 
waistcoat  on  to  the  Captain  from  behind  when  I 
consider  that  circumstances  require  it  to  prevent 
outbreaks  of  violence.  As  you  see,  it  has  excessively 
long  sleeves  with  the  object  of  hindering  his  move- 
ments. They  are  to  be  tied  at  the  back.  There 
are  two  straps  here  that  go  through  buckles,  which 
are  afterwards  made  fast  to  the  arm  of  the  chair  or 
the  sofa  or  whatever  is  convenient.  Will  you  do 

this? 

NURSE. 

No,  sir,  I  can't  do  that ;  I  can't,  indeed  ! 

LAURA. 
Why  don't  you  do  it  yourself,  Doctor  ? 

DOCTOR. 

Because  the  patient  distrusts  me.  You,  Madam,  would 
appear  the  most  obvious  person,  but  I  fear  that  he 
distrusts  even  you. 

(Laura  makes  an  involuntary  movement.) 
82 


ACT  m.  sc.  iv.    THE  FATHER 

DOCTOR. 
Perhaps  you,  Pastor. 

PASTOR. 
No,  I  must  decline. 

SCENE  IV 
THE  FORMER.     NOJD. 

LAURA. 
Have  you  delivered  the  note  already  ? 

NOJD. 
Yes,  ma'am. 

DOCTOR. 

Is  that  you,  Nbjd  ?  You  know  the  circumstances  here  ; 
you  know  that  the  Captain  is  out  of  his  mind,  and 
you  must  help  us  to  look  after  him. 

NOJD. 

If  there  is  anything  I  can  do  for  the  Captain,  you  may  be 
sure  I  will  do  it. 

DOCTOR. 
You  are  to  put  this  jacket  on  him  .  .  . 

NURSE. 

No,  he  shan't  touch  him.  Nbjd  shall  not  hurt  him.  I 
would  rather  do  it  myself,  very,  very  gently.  But 
Nbjd  can  stand  outside  and  help  me  if  necessary. 
He  may  do  that.  (Loud  knocking  at  the  private 
door.) 

83 


THE  FATHER     ACT  m.  sc.  v. 

DOCTOR. 

Here  he  is  !  Put  the  jacket  under  your  shawl  on  that 
chair,  and  if  you  will  all  go  out  for  the  present,  the 
Pastor  and  I  will  receive  him,  for  that  door  will  not 
hold  out  many  minutes.  Now  go. 

NURSE  (out  to  left.) 
Lord  Jesus  help  us  ! 

(Laura  locks  bureau,  and  goes  out  to  left.) 
(Nojd  goes  out  at  back.) 

SCENE  V 

(The  private  door  is  forced  open,  so  that  the  chair  is 
thrown  forward  on  the  floor  and  the  lock  is  broken.) 

THE  CAPTAIN,  DOCTOR,  PASTOR. 

(The  Captain  comes  in  with  a  pile  of  books  under  his 

arm.     Puts  them  on  the  table.) 

CAPTAIN. 

The  whole  thing  is  to  be  read  here,  and  in  every  book. 
So  I  was  not  out  of  my  mind  !  Here  it  is  in  the 
Odyssey,  canto  one,  verse  215,  page  6  of  the  Upsala 
translation.  It  is  Telemakos  who  speaks  to 
Athene.  "  My  Mother  indeed  maintains  that  he, 
Odysseus,  is  my  Father,  but  I  myself  know  it  not,  for 
no  man  yet  hath  known  his  own  origin."  And  this 
suspicion  is  harboured  by  Telemakos  of  Penelope, 
the  most  virtuous  of  women.  It  is  beautiful !  Is  it 
not  ?  And  here  we  have  the  prophet  Ezekiel :  "  The 
Fool  saith ;  see  here  is  my  father,  but  who  can  tell 
whose  loins  have  engendered  him." 
84 


ACT  in.  sc.  v.     THE  FATHER 

It  is  quite  clear.  What  have  I  got  here?  Merslakow's 
History  of  Russian  Literature.  "Alexander  Puschkin, 
Russia's  greatest  poet,  was  tortured  to  death  by  the  re- 
ports that  were  circulated  about  his  wife's  unfaithful- 
ness rather  than  by  the  ball  he  received  in  his  breast 
in  a  duel.  On  his  deathbed  he  swore  that  she  was 
innocent."  Ass,  Ass  !  How  could  he  answer  for  it  ? 
In  the  meantime  you  hear  that  I  read  my  books — Ah, 
Jonas,  are  you  there  ?  And  the  Doctor  of  course  ? 
Have  you  heard  how  I  answered  an  English  lady, 
when  she  complained  of  an  Irishman  who  used  to 
throw  lighted  lamps  in  his  wife's  face.  "  God,  what 
women,"  I  cried. — "  Women,"  she  lisped. — "  Yes,  of 
course,"  I  answered.  "  When  things  go  to  such  a 
length  that  a  man,  a  man  who  loved  and  worshipped 
a  woman,  takes  a  lighted  lamp  and  throws  it  in  her 
face,  then  one  can  tell." 

PASTOR. 
What  can  one  tell  ? 

CAPTAIN. 

Nothing.  One  never  knows  anything.  One  only  believes. 
Is  not  that  true,  Jonas  ?  One  believes,  and  then  one 
is  saved  !  Yes  ;  so  one  would  be.  No,  I  know  that 
one  may  be  lost  by  one's  faith.  I  know  that. 

DOCTOR. 
Captain ! 

CAPTAIN. 

Hush !     I  will  not  speak  to  you ;  I  will  not  hear  you 
repeating  the  chatter  in  there  like  a  telephone  !     In 
85 


THE  FATHER     ACT  in.  so.  v. 

there  !  You  know ! — Listen,  Jonas  ;  do  you  believe 
that  you  are  the  father  of  your  children  ?  I  remember 
that  you  had  a  tutor  in  the  house  who  was  good- 
looking,  and  who  was  a  great  deal  gossiped  about. 

PASTOR. 
Adolf,  beware ! 

CAPTAIN. 

Grope  about  under  your  wig,  and  feel  if  there  are  not  two 
knobs  there.  By  my  soul,  I  believe  he  turns  pale  ! 
Yes,  yes  ;  they  only  talk  ;  but,  good  Lord,  there  is  so 
much  talk.  Still  we  are  nothing  but  ridiculous  dupes 
for  all  that,  we  married  men.  Don't  you  think  so, 
Doctor  ?  How  was  it  with  your  marriage  bed.  Had 
you  not  a  lieutenant  in  the  house,  too  ?  Wait,  and  I 
will  guess  ?  His  name  is  (whispers  in  Doctors  ear}. 
You  see  he  turns  pale,  too !  Don't  be  unhappy  now. 
She  is  dead  and  buried,  and  what  is  done  can't  be 
undone  ?  I  knew  him  well,  by  the  by,  and  he  is 
now  .  .  .  look  at  me,  Doctor  .  .  .  No,  right  into 
my  eyes  ...  a  major  of  dragoons !  By  God,  if  I 
don't  believe  he  has  horns,  too. 

DOCTOR  (annoyed). 
Captain,  won't  you  talk  of  something  else  ? 

CAPTAIN. 

Do  you  see.  He  immediately  wants  to  talk  of  something 
else  when  I  mention  horns. 

PASTOR. 

Do  you  know,  Adolf,  that  you  are  insane  ? 

86 


ACT  in.  sc.  v.     THE  FATHER 

CAPTAIN. 

Yes ;  I  know  that  well  enough.  But  if  I  only  had  the 
management  of  your  crowned  brains  awhile,  I  should 
soon  have  you  shut  up,  too !  I  am  mad,  but  how 
did  I  become  so  ?  That  does  not  matter  to  you,  and 
it  does  not  matter  to  anyone !  Will  you  talk  of  some- 
thing else  now  ?  (Takes  photograph  album  from  the 
table.}  Lord  Jesus,  is  that  my  child  !  Mine!  We 
cannot  tell  that.  Do  you  know  what  would  have  to 
be  done  to  make  sure  ?  First,  one  would  have  to 
marry  to  get  a  position  in  society,  then  immediately 
be  divorced  and  become  lovers,  and  finally  adopt  the 
children.  Then  one  would  at  least  be  sure  that  they 
were  one's  adopted  children.  That  is  right  enough. 
But  how  does  all  this  help  me  now  ?  What  can  help 
me  now  that  you  have  taken  my  conception  of  im- 
mortality from  me,  what  do  science  and  philosophy 
avail  me  when  I  have  nothing  to  live  for,  what  can  I 
do  with  life  when  I  have  no  honour  ?  I  grafted  my 
right  arm,  half  my  brain,  half  my  marrow  on  to 
another  stem,  for  I  thought  they  would  grow  up 
together  and  knit  themselves  into  a  more  perfect 
tree,  and  then  someone  came  with  a  knife  and  cut 
them  asunder  below  the  graft,  and  now  I  am  only 
half  a  tree.  As  for  the  other  half,  it  goes  on  grow- 
ing with  my  arm  and  half  my  brain,  while  I  pine  and 
die,  for  they  were  the  best  parts  I  gave  away.  Now 
I  will  die.  Do  what  you  like  with  me.  I  shall  not 
be  found  any  more. 

[The  Doctor  whispers  to  the  Pastor,  and  they  go  into 
the  inner  rooms  on  the  left.     Immediately  after- 
wards Bertha  comes  out. 
87 


THE  FATHER   ACT  m.  so.  vi. 


SCENE  VI 

THE  CAPTAIN.     BERTHA. 
(The  Captain  sinks  into  a  chair  by  the  table.) 

BERTHA  (goes  up  to  him). 
Are  you  ill,  father  ? 

CAPTAIN  (looks  up  offended). 
I? 

BERTHA. 

Do  you  know  what  you  have  done  ?  Do  you  know  that 
you  threw  the  lamp  at  mother  ? 

CAPTAIN. 
Did  I? 

BERTHA. 

Yes  you  did.     Just  think  if  she  had  been  hurt. 

CAPTAIN. 
What  would  that  have  mattered  ? 

BERTHA. 
You  are  not  my  father  if  you  can  talk  like  that. 

CAPTAIN. 

What  do  you  say  ?  Am  I  not  your  father  ?  How  do 
you  know  that  ?  Who  told  you  that  ?  And  who 
is  your  father,  then  ?  Who  ? 

BERTHA. 
Not  you  at  any  rate. 

88 


ACT  in.  sc.  vi.    THE  FATHER 

CAPTAIN. 

Still  not  I !  Who,  then  ?  Who  ?  You  seem  to  be  well 
informed!  Who  told  you?  That  I  should  live  to 
see  my  child  come  and  tell  me  straight  in  the  face 
that  I  am  not  her  father  !  But  do  you  not  know  that 
you  disgrace  your  mother  when  you  say  that  ?  Do 
you  not  know  that  it  is  her  shame  if  it  is  so  ? 

BERTHA. 
Say  nothing  bad  about  mother ;  do  you  hear  ? 

CAPTAIN. 

No  ;  you  all  hold  together  against  me  !  And  so  you  have 
done  all  the  time. 

BERTHA. 
Father ! 

CAPTAIN. 

Do  not  say  that  word  again  ! 

BERTHA. 
Father,  father ! 

CAPTAIN  (drawing  her  to  him). 

Bertha,  dearly  beloved  child,  you  are  my  child,  are  you 
not  ?  Yes,  yes  ;  it  cannot  be  otherwise.  It  is  so. 
The  rest  was  only  morbid  thoughts  which  come  on 
the  wind  like  pestilence  and  fevers.  Look  at  me, 
and  then  I  shall  see  my  soul  in  your  eyes  ! — But  I 
see  her  soul,  too !  You  have  two  souls,  and  you 
love  me  with  one  of  them  and  hate  me  with  the 
other.  But  you  must  only  love  me !  You  must 
only  have  one  soul,  or  you  will  never  have  peace, 
89 


THE  FATHER   ACT  m.  so.  vr. 

nor  I  either.  You  must  only  have  one  thought, 
which  is  the  child  of  my  thought ;  you  must  only 
have  one  will,  which  is  mine. 

BERTHA. 
But  I  will  not.     I  want  to  be  myself. 

CAPTAIN. 

You  must  not.     You  see,  I  am  a  cannibal,  and  I  will  eat 

you.     Your  mother  wanted  to  eat  me,  but  she  could 

not.     I  am  Saturn  who  ate  his  children  because  it 

had  been  prophesied  that  they  would  eat  him.     To 

eat  or  be  eaten  !     That  is  the  question.     If  I  do  not 

eat  you,  you  will  eat  me,  and  you  have   already 

showed  me  your  teeth !     But  don't  be  frightened, 

my  darling  child ;  I  won't  do  you  any  harm. 

[Goes  to  the  trophy  of  weapons  and  takes  down  a 

revolver. 

BERTHA  (trying  to  escape). 
Help,  mother,  help,  he's  going  to  murder  me  ! 

NURSE  (coming  in). 
Mr  Adolf,  what  is  it  ? 

CAPTAIN  (examines  revolver). 
Have  you  taken  the  cartridges  out  ? 

NURSE. 

Yes,  I  just  tidied  them  away,  but  sit  down  and  be  quiet, 
and  I'll  get  them  out  again  ! 

[She  takes  the  Captain  by  the  arm  and  puts  him  in  a 
chair,  into  which  he  sinks  feebly.  Then  she  takes 
out  the  strait-waistcoat  and  places  herself  behind 
the  chair. 

(Bertha  slips  out  on  the  left.) 
90 


ACT  in.  so.  vi.    THE  FATHER 

NURSE. 

Mr  Adolf,  do  you  remember  when  you  were  my  darling 
little  child  and  I  tucked  you  in  of  nights,  and 
said  "  Gentle  Jesus  "  to  you,  and  do  you  remember 
how  I  got  up  in  the  night  and  gave  you  a  drink ;  do 
you  remember  how  I  lighted  the  candle  and  talked 
about  pretty  things  when  you  had  bad  dreams  and 
couldn't  sleep.  Do  you  remember  ? 

CAPTAIN. 

Go  on  talking,  Margret,  it  soothes  my  head  so :  Go  on 
talking  again. 

NURSE. 

Oh  yes,  but  you  must  listen  to  me  !  Do  you  remember 
when  you  once  took  the  great  kitchen  knife  and 
wanted  to  cut  out  boats  with  it,  and  how  I  came  in 
and  had  to  get  the  knife  away  by  tricking  you.  You 
were  a  little  foolish  child  so  I  had  to  trick  you,  for 
you  didn't  believe  that  we  meant  well  by  you.  "  Give 
me  that  ugly  snake,"  I  said,  "or  it  will  bite  you" !  and 
then  you  gave  up  the  knife.  ( Takes  the  revolver  out  of 
the  Captain's  hand.)  And  then  when  you  had  to  dress 
yourself  and  didn't  want  to.  Then  I  had  to  coax  you 
and  say  that  you  should  have  a  golden  coat  and  be 
dressed  like  a  prince.  And  then  I  took  your  little  vest 
that  was  only  made  of  green  worsted,  and  held  it  up 
in  front  of  you  and  said :  "  In  with  both  arms,"  and 
then  I  said  "  sit  nice  and  still  while  I  button  it  down 
the  back."  (She  gets  the  jacket  on.)  And  then  I  said: 
"  Get  up  now,  and  walk  across  the  floor  like  a  good 

91 


THE  FATHER   ACT  in.  so.  vi. 

boy  so  that  I  can  see  whether  it's  straight.  (She 
leads  him  to  the  sofa.)  And  then  I  said:  "Now 
you  must  go  to  bed." 

CAPTAIN. 

What  did  you  say?  Was  I  to  go  to  bed  when  I  was 
dressed.  .  .  .  Damnation !  What  have  you  done 
with  me?  (Tries  to  free  himself.)  Ah  !  You  infer- 
nally cunning  woman !  Who  would  have  thought  that 
you  had  so  much  wit.  (Lies  down  on  the  sofa.) 
Trapped,  shorn,  outwitted,  forbidden  to  die. 

NURSE. 

Forgive  me,  Mr  Adolf,  forgive  me,  but  I  wanted  to  hinder 
you  from  killing  your  child. 

CAPTAIN. 

Why^didn't  you  let  me  kill  the  child  ?  For  life  is  a  hell  and 
death  a  heaven,  and  children  belong  to  heaven. 

NURSE. 
How  do  you  know  what  comes  after  death  ? 

CAPTAIN. 

That  is  the  only  thing  we  do  know,  but  of  life  we  know 
nothing !  Oh,  if  one  had  only  known  from  the 
beginning. 

NURSE. 

Mr  Adolf,  humble  your  hard  heart  and  ciy  to  God  for 
mercy,  it  is  not  yet  too  late.     It  was  not  too  late  for 
the  thief  on  the  cross  when  the  Saviour  said,  "To-day 
shalt  thou  be  with  Me  in  Paradise." 
92 


ACT  in.  sc.  vi.    THE  FATHER 

CAPTAIN. 

Are  you  croaking  for  a  corpse  already,  old  crow  ? 

NURSE  (takes  a  hymn  book  out  of  her  pocket). 

CAPTAIN  (calls). 
Nbjd,  is  Nbjd  there  ?  [Enter  Nb'jd. 

CAPTAIN. 

Fling  that  woman  out !  She  is  trying  to  strangle  me  with 
her  hymn  book.  Throw  her  out  of  the  window,  or 
up  the  chimney  or  anywhere. 

NOJD  (looks  at  Nurse). 

Heaven  help  you,  Captain,  but  I  can't  do  that,  I  simply 
can't  If  only  it  were  six  men,  but  a  woman  ! 

CAPTAIN. 
Have  you  never  got  the  better  of  a  woman,  heigh  ? 

NOJD. 

Of  course  I  have,  but  it  is  a  very  different  thing  to  lay 
hands  on  a  woman. 

CAPTAIN. 
Why  is  it  so  different  ?  Have  they  not  laid  hands  on  me  ? 

NOJD. 

Yes,  but  I  can't,  Captain.  It  is  downright  as  if  you  were 
to  ask  me  to  strike  the  pastor.  It's  against  nature  ! 
I  can't ! 

93 


THE  FATHER  ACT  in.  sc.  vn. 

SCENE  VII 
THE  FORMER.     LAURA  (she  signs  to  Nojd  to  go). 

CAPTAIN. 

Omphale,  Omphale  !    Now  you  play  with  the  club  while 
Hercules  spins  the  wool. 

[Laura  comes  forward  to  the  sofa. 

LAURA. 
Adolf.    Look  at  me.    Do  you  think  that  I  am  your  enemy  ? 

CAPTAIN. 

Yes,  I  do  think  so.  I  believe  that  you  are  all  my  enemies  ! 
My  mother  who  did  not  want  to  bring  me  into  the 
world  because  I  was  to  be  born  with  pain  was  my 
enemy  when  she  deprived  my  embryonic  life  of  its 
nourishment  and  made  a  weakling  of  me.  My  sister 
was  my  enemy  when  she  taught  me  that  I  was  to  be 
obedient  to  her.  The  first  woman  I  embraced  was  my 
enemy,  for  she  gave  me  ten  years  of  illness  in  pay- 
ment for  the  love  I  gave  her.  My  daughter  became 
my  enemy  when  she  had  to  choose  between  me  and 
you.  And  you,  my  wife,  you  have  been  my  arch- 
enemy, because  you  have  never  left  me  till  I  lay  here 
lifeless. 

LAURA. 

I  don't  know  that  I  ever  thought  or  intended  what  you 

think  I  did.     It  may  be  that  an  obscure  desire  to  get 

rid  of   you  as   something    troublesome   may  have 

existed  within  me,  and  if  you  see  any  plan  in  my 

94 


ACT  in.  sc.  vii.  THE  FATHER 

conduct,  it  is  possible  that  it  was  to  be  found  there, 
although  I  was  unconscious  of  it.  I  have  never 
reflected  about  my  actions,  but  they  have  proceeded 
on  the  lines  that  you  yourself  laid  down,  and  before 
God  and  my  conscience  I  consider  myself  innocent, 
even  if  I  am  not.  Your  existence  has  lain  like  a 
stone  on  my  heart,  which  weighed  so  heavily  that 
the  heart  sought  to  shake  off  the  oppressive  burden. 
These  are  the  facts,  and  if  I  have  wounded  you  to 
the  death,  I  ask  your  forgiveness. 

CAPTAIN. 

All^that  sounds  plausible.  But  of  what  help  is  it  to  me  ? 
And  whose  is  the  fault  ?  Perhaps  that  of  a  spiritual 
marriage  !  Formerly  one  married  a  wife,  now  one 
enters  into  partnership  with  a  business  woman,  or 
goes  to  live  with  a  friend.  .  .  .  And  then  one  cheats 
the  partner,  and  outrages  the  friend !  What  becomes 
of  love,  healthy  physical  love  ?  It  dies  in  the  mean- 
time. And  what  is  the  result  of  this  love  in  shares, 
payable  to  the  bearer  without  joint  liability  ?  Who 
is  the  bearer  when  the  crash  comes?  Who  is  the 
fleshly  father  to  the  spiritual  child  ? 

LAURA. 

And  with  regard  to  your  suspicions  about  the  child,  they 
are  quite  without  foundation. 

CAPTAIX. 

That  is  just  what  is  so  appalling !     If  at  least  there  was 

any  foundation   for  them,  it   would  be   something 

to  take  hold  of,  to  cling  to.     Now  there  are  only 

shadows  that  hide  themselves  in  the  bushes,  and 

95 


THE  FATHER  ACT  m.  sc.  vn. 

stick  out  their  heads  to  grin  ;  it  is  like  fighting  with 
the  air,  or  firing  blank  cartridges  at  a  sham-fight. 
A  fatal  reality  would  have  called  forth  resistance, 
nerved  life  and  soul  to  action  ;  but  now  my  thoughts 
dissolve  into  thin  air,  and  my  brain  grinds  a  void 
until  it  is  on  fire.  Put  a  pillow  under  my  head,  and 
throw  something  over  me,  I  am  cold.  I  am  so 
terribly  cold ! 

[Laura  takes  her  shawl  and  spreads  it  over  him. 
Nurse  goes  to  fetch  a  pillow. 

LAURA. 
Give  me  your  hand,  friend. 

CAPTAIN. 

My  hand !  The  hand  that  you  have  bound !  Omphale ! 
Omphale!  .  .  .  But  I  can  feel  your  shawl  against 
my  mouth ;  it  is  as  warm  and  soft  as  your  arm,  and 
it  smells  of  vanilla,  like  your  hair  when  you  were 
young !  Laura,  when  you  were  young,  and  we 
walked  in  the  birch  woods,  with  the  oxlips  and  the 
thrashes  .  .  .  glorious,  glorious  !  Think  how  beauti- 
ful life  was,  and  what  it  is  now.  You  did  not  wish 
to  have  it  so,  and  neither  did  I,  and  yet  it  happened. 
Who  then  rales  over  life  ? 

LAURA. 
God  alone  rales  .  .  . 

CAPTAIN. 

The  God  of  strife  then !  Or  perhaps  the  goddess  nowa- 
days. Take  away  the  cat  that  is  lying  on  me! 
Take  it  away! 

[Nurse  brings  in  a  pillow  and  takes  away  the  shawl. 
96 


ACT  in.  sc.  vii.  THE  FATHER 

CAPTAIN. 

Give  me  my  uniform  coat !  Throw  it  over  me !  (Nurse 
takes  the  coat  from  the  clothes  pegs  and  lays  it  over 
him.)  Ah,  my  rough  lion  skin  that  you  wanted  to 
take  away  from  me !  Omphale  !  Omphale  !  Thou 
cunning  woman  who  wast  the  lover  of  peace  and  the 
deviser  of  disarmaments.  Wake,  Hercules,  before 
they  take  thy  club  from  thee !  You  will  wile  our 
armour  off  us  too,  and  make  believe  that  it  is  tinsel. 
No,  it  was  iron,  do  you  hear,  before  it  became  tinsel. 
In  olden  days  the  smith  made  the  cuirass,  now  it 
is  the  needlewoman.  Omphale !  Omphale  !  rude 
strength  has  fallen  before  treacherous  weakness. — 
Out  on  you,  infernal  woman,  and  damnation  on 
your  sex !  (He  raises  himself  to  spit  at  her,  but  falls 
back  on  to  the  sofa.)  What  sort  of  a  pillow  have  you 
given  me,  Margret?  It  is  so  hard,  and  so  cold,  so 
cold !  Come  and  sit  here  by  me  on  the  chair.  There 
now !  May  I  lay  my  head  on  your  lap  ?  Ah,  that  is 
warm  !  Bend  over  me  so  that  I  can  feel  your  breast ! 
Oh,  it  is  sweet  to  sleep  on  a  woman's  breast,  a  mother's 
or  a  mistress's,  but  the  mother's  is  best 

LAURA. 
Would  you  like  to  see  your  child,  Adolf  ? 

CAPTAIN. 

My  child?     A  man  has  no  children,  it  is  only  women 
who    have    children,    and    therefore    the    future    is 
theirs,  when  we  die  childless.     Oh,  God !  who  lovest 
children ! 
G  97 


THE  FATHER  ACT  m.  sc.  vn. 

NURSE. 
Listen,  he  is  praying  to  God. 

CAPTAIN. 

No,  to  you  to  put  me  to  sleep,  for  I  am  tired,  so  tired. 
Good  night,  Margret,  and  blessed  be  you  among 
women. 

[He  raises  himself  but  falls  back  on  the  nurse's  lap 
with  a,  cry. 


SCENE  VIII 

LAURA  goes  to  the  left  and  calls  in  the  DOCTOR  who 
enters  with  the  PASTOR. 

LAURA. 

Help,  Doctor !  if  it  is  not  too  late.     Look,  he  has  ceased 
to  breathe ! 

DOCTOR  (feels  the  patient's  pulse). 
It  is  a  fit. 

PASTOR. 
Is  he  dead  ? 

DOCTOR. 

No,  he  may  still  come  back  to  life,  but  to  what  an 
awakening  we  do  not  know. 

PASTOR. 

"  First  death,  and  then  the  judgment" 

98 


ACT  in.  sc.  vii.  THE  FATHER 

DOCTOR. 

No  judgment,  and  no  accusations.  You  who  believe 
that  a  God  overrules  the  fortunes  of  men  must  ask 
of  Him  concerning  this  matter. 

NURSE. 
Ah,  Pastor,  he  prayed  to  God  in  his  last  moments. 

PASTOR  (to  Laura). 
Is  that  true  ? 

LAURA. 
It  is  true. 

DOCTOR. 

In  that  case,  of  which  I  can  judge  just  as  little  as  of  the 
origin  of  the  illness,  my  science  is  at  an  end.  You 
try  now,  Pastor. 

LAURA. 

Is  this  all  that  you  have  to  say  by  this  death-bed,  Doctor  ? 

DOCTOR, 

This  is  all!  I  know  no  more.  Let  him  speak  that 
knows  more ! 

BERTHA  (enters  on  the  left  and  runs  forward 

to  her  mother). 
Mother!  Mother! 

LAURA. 
My  child,  my  own  child ! 

PASTOR. 
Amen. 

THE   END. 

99 


PKIKTED  BT 

TUEHBULL  AND   SPKAR3, 
EDINBURGH 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


tec  09 


1988 


1 1999 


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